Sydney: Season Five
by CRebel
Summary: Sydney escapes Terminus with the rest of her group, but her problems are far from over. Her estranged mother sleeps a stone's throw away, her relationship with her father becomes more and more strained, and her boyfriend remains oblivious to one of her darkest secrets. Eventually, even Sydney's sanity falls into question. And the apocalyptic world doesn't care one bit.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of _The Walking Dead._**

**A.N.: For those of you who have read from the beginning, you're awesome. For those of you who have not read from the beginning but are reading now, you are also awesome. Thank you guys so much. Enjoy! **

**...**

**Prologue**

My dad's gone again. Rick's gone again. Glenn, Bob. I got them all back, and now they're gone. _Again. _That part, the _again _part, makes it all so much worse, pisses me off so much more.

We thought they would open the main door when they came for us. But they didn't. They opened a door on top of this boxcar, this _cage_, and dropped in a smoke bomb. Or something. Whatever it was, exactly, that poured from the little gray canister, it burned my eyes, my throat, made us all cough. There was shouting . . . Then the smoke faded and my dad and the others were gone. It was like a magic show I went to once, with my Mom's boyfriend Tommy, where a magician made his assistant disappear. But then the assistant stepped out of a big blue wardrobe and everyone cheered, because she was fine, and happy, even.

That's not going to happen here.

_Terminus. Sanctuary for all. Community for all._

Damn Terminus. Damn its sanctuary, damn its community, damn its arriving and surviving and its _lies _and its _bullshit _and mostly, mostly its _people._

All the signs, all the – hope. We thought it was possible. We should have _known._

But I can't worry. Worrying would just get in the way. Instead, I'll expect my dad to be okay. I'll expect Rick and Glenn and Bob to be okay. Somehow. Because that way, I can focus. I can be brave.

And I can't tell anyone about how I feel the blood pumping all around the gash the bullet left in my side. How it hurts, how it's bleeding again. I can't tell anyone how a chill is rushing from my head to my toes, even as I'm dripping sweat. Because if I _did _tell them, they would worry, and they _can't worry. _At least not about me. They only need to worry about _us. _About _us _against _them._

Because we have to win. I don't know what kind of fight we're talking about here, but we have to win it. Something's in my bones – this desperation, a fierceness. I feel it when Carl's fingers tangle with mine, when I catch Maggie playing with the pocket watch Glenn got from Hershel, when Owen shares a cigarette with the army man Abraham. When LC steps towards me and then stops.

I feel it. We _have _to win.

We're going to.

**A.N.: So, my new beta convinced me that there was more of a time jump during the second half of the last season of TWD than I wrote into my story, so I wrote a new chapter and made some adjustments to later ones that hopefully make up for it. I think I like it better now. The new chapter is called "In the Fog." Enjoy.**


	2. In the Middle

"Hey. You okay?"

The words breeze through me, soothing bad emotions and riling up strange other ones. I'm still getting used to Carl being with me again, watching out for me again. A week ago, the only person who might have asked me if I was okay would have been Owen, and, unless I looked ready to die, he would have twisted his concern into some sort of teasing comment and I would have responded with a snap, and he would know that I wasn't about to break down or fall over. But Carl, Carl asks me with his hand rubbing over my arm, with his voice soft and good. And warm. I want to get used to him being here again.

But oh, he could be gone so fast.

Can't think that way.

"Yeah," I answer, because, like my dad said just this morning, I'm always fine if you ask me. But now my head is shaking back and forth, just a little, then more. "No."

Carl's hand goes all the way up my arm and stops on my shoulder, close to my neck. "They'll come back."

"I know."

He lowers his head, draws my eyes in. Solemn look. The kind that digs into me and searches. "Do you?"

I twist my head, look out of one of the splits in the wall. I see concrete, a fence, another boxcar. Just tiny bits of all of those things, though. I can't tell what's going on. Sure as hell can't tell . . . can't even think about where my dad and Rick and Glenn and Bob are. Or, I don't want to, I shouldn't. Because that only leads me to bad places.

I have a makeshift knife in my hand. We all made weapons out of what we had in here – we used our clothes, whatever we had in our pockets, pieces of the wooden parts of the wall that we sawed out with zippers and jewelry chains. Mine's a long wooden triangle with a torn piece of the jacket Carl gave me wrapped around it to make a hilt. My dad helped me tie it on so it wouldn't come off. I rub my thumb over the fabric. "What do you think they're doing to them?"

"I don't know."

At least he didn't try to lie. There have been too many lies in my life lately.

"Look, it doesn't matter what they're doing," Carl says. We're whispering, this talk is just for us. "You know them. They'll get out of this. They always get out."

_Everybody makes it, _Bob said once, _Until they don't._

"I _know_," I say again, and it's a lie, because, no matter how sick of lies I am, they're a habit I fall back on too much now. I need to stop it, just . . . because. But right now, I just need to stay alive. That's what I have to focus on. I lift my chin up, let some sun land on my forehead. It helps the chills some. I take a deep breath, and that's when Carl tugs on my arm.

"Come here. Let's sit down."

I follow him, I sit with him. We position ourselves in the center of the far right wall and pull our knees to our chests. I watch the rest of our group. Owen, LC, Michonne. Maggie, Sasha, Abraham. The army girl, and the girl with Glenn, and the scientist, Eugene. I wonder who they'll take next. Abraham, probably. Eugene, maybe Michonne, maybe LC. The strongest, I bet. Get the ones they worry about most out of the way first, so the rest are easy. Fish in a barrel.

Abraham and Owen are finishing up that cigarette. I kind of want to help them. LC looks like she might, too, but she turns away after a few seconds of staring and stands where Carl and I stood a minute ago, looking out at the little bit of Terminus in view and, I know, getting no new info. But it's something to do. I can understand that. But I don't want to understand anything about her, so I rub my eyes and then lift them to the ceiling, but before I can grab my own thoughts and take them somewhere else, Carl does it for me.

"You want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"What happened out there. What it was like. What . . . you did. You and those men."

I stare at him. "I didn't do anything awful, if that's what you mean."

"No, I – I didn't think that. I just meant . . . how did you get along with them?"

I slide one hand over the other, find a stiff knuckle, pop it down. "We just survived. I was with them, but I wasn't . . . _with_ them. Being there just helped keep me alive long enough to find you."

A long pause. Carl's boot scrapes against the floor as he readjusts, sighs. "Did they hurt you?"

"Not until we met up with you guys, no." And now I'm aware of the burning in my side. And the throbbing in my face, where, as my dad put it, I have a hell of a bruise.

"Not at all?"

I wonder what he would do if I said yes. If I told him about Len. Should I tell him about Len?

"No. I just . . . We raided houses, I hunted a lot, some of them did too, and we camped together and shot walkers that got close. It wasn't anything like what we have here. It was . . . business. There were rules, and you had to follow them, or –"

_Teach him. Teach him all the way._

And I don't want to, but I have to think about what happened on that road a night ago, the last night of Joe's life, of all of their lives, that group of thugs. When blood and gore and fury and love all spilled out and kind of took over, too many fierce things at one time. I swallow. "I didn't know how bad they were."

"You didn't have a choice." Carl leans closer, and like a magnet, his shoulder pulls my head in, and I'm resting on him with my eyes closed. But then Carl asks, "What about him, though?"

I open my eyes back up, even though I know who he's talking about. The _him _in question has one foot propped against the wall, has his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the roof that could open up and spill in a new threat any second now. _Cool as a cucumber, _asmy Papaw used to say. Nana might have said that, actually. Maybe they both said it.

God help me, they're fading.

I crack another knuckle. "Owen's not like them."

"Was that guy really his father?"

"I guess so. He never told me . . . I thought his dad was someone else. A nice guy. And Owen called that guy _Dad, _I just . . . I don't know the story. I mean, Owen, he's not my . . ."

But the hell if I know what Owen is to me. I know he took care of me. I also know he's a – what's the term? – juvenile delinquent, yes, oh, I caught those words in my mother's mouth on occasion, as she narrowed her eyes at a pile of papers in front of her, a mug on one side, a bottle on the other.

"Do you trust him?"

I push myself up from Carl to get a better look at him. The scattered light lands on his face in a pattern, dark-light-dark. He's solemn. Cautious. Strong. And it comforts me to see him like that. Especially considering how he was the last time we were together, before we got separated, when he was playing on the edge of his breaking point, fragile and my responsibility, my one last responsibility. Before I thought I lost him, before I thought I deserved to lose him, and before Owen, for better or worse, became my lifeline.

Huh. I guess that's what he is to me. Or was_. _My damn lifeline, who saved my virginity and more than likely my life, who risked his neck and lost standing with his now-dead father – a dick, but still his father – to get me back to my people.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I trust him. You can, too." When Carl doesn't answer right away, I put my chin on his shoulder, so I can still kind of see his face. "Trust me?"

Our eyes come together again, and I really see him seeing me, which I guess always happens when people look at each other, so maybe it's a stupid thing to say. But it feels different with us. "Yeah," Carl says, brushing hair off of my face. "You're sweating."

I roll my neck and press my head into that soft spot between his head and shoulder. "It's hot."

"Not that hot." His hand lingers on my forehead. "I think you might have a fever."

"I don't. Even if I did, me having a fever is the last thing we would need to worry about." I run my hand along the edge of my wooden kind-of knife. Sharp. Sharp enough? My left hand itches.

"If you're sick, you don't need to fight. You need to stay with me when we get out of here. I'll keep you safe."

"I'm supposed to keep _you_ safe," I mutter without thinking.

"No, we talked about that, remember? Back at the prison, the first night we . . . We keep each other safe. Like we've always done. Except, now . . . I'm your boyfriend. I'm _supposed_ to protect you."

I laugh into his shirt. Maybe I do have a fever. "That's sexist."

"No. That's just how I want it to be." His head tips onto mine. The brim of his hat shields us, so we're almost alone. Not really. But it feels like it, a little. It's good. I almost forget that we might be about to die. Then again, after you get in so many situations when you're about to die, it just sort of loses its impact. Until the teeth are on your arm or the gun is in your face. That's when you start taking it seriously again.

And now I see my dad's face, with a gun pointed at it, Rick next to him –

A new chill comes across me, the kind that has nothing to do with a fever I may or may not have.

Carl's hand goes up and down my arm some more. I play with his shirt. We sit, just sit and be with each other and listen to the others whisper, and I consider things, try to plan. If they come again – _when_ they come again – they might try something different, to confuse us. But what else can they do? No, they'll keep using a smoke bomb, I think. Our best chance then, mine and Carl's, would be to hunker down over here and cover our faces as best we can, and slice and stab and bite and kick anyone that comes close. But our chances of winning that battle are slim. These people, they must have gas masks or something. They'd come out on top in a fight. I mean, they got my dad. But maybe, maybe when they open the doors again, Carl and I and someone else small, maybe that army girl or maybe Sasha or maybe both, could be on the shoulders of the other people. We could jump out when they open that door on top, and fight like hell, and –

– and see how long it takes them to shoot us down.

Stupid idea. Stupid idea. But I don't have any others. Think. Have to think. Maggie, I should talk to Maggie. Michonne, too, and Abraham, hell, he's an army guy, he should know something about strategy, right? And the girl, too?

Have to stand up, break away from Carl. Have to. Have to think about him, and us, long-term –

Gunshots crack through the air.

Carl goes tense, and I do too, like deer jerking to attention when they catch a predator's scent. It's not just us, though. Everyone is very still, looking at one another without blinking, but the gunshots keep going for a while, _bang bang bang, _and Abraham eventually breaks gazes with the army girl and steps up to one of the slits. Michonne goes to one, too. They both stand to the side of their openings, shielding themselves with wall, and watching.

"Our people?" asks Maggie, standing behind Michonne, still gripping Glenn's watch.

"I don't know," Michonne answers, lowly. "Can't see anything." A moment, and then, "People are running. Towards the center of the place. Away from the fence, at least."

When the explosion comes, it makes us jump, like explosions typically do to anyone. I guess it's an explosion. No, I know it is. The ground shakes, I swear, and I might even feel a wave of heat, and I get up, so fast that I stumble a bit. Chaos has jolted through the car, everyone's moving now, shouting, and I run to one of the free slits in the wall, and I catch a glimpse of those running people before I'm pulled back, and I whirl to see that it's LC and I shove her hand away. She gives me a look that's dangerously close to one she would have given me in the old world, a _Listen to me right now _look, and in spite of everything, the anger that spikes in me shoots to the top of my heart for just a second, only a second, and then there's some more banging, more gunshots, and screams and shoes pounding on cement, and LC's stupid look drops in priority. It's frantic outside, and we're trapped in here, and it's a horrible feeling. Getting rid of that, that's the first priority. That and Carl, Owen, Maggie, the rest of them, too. And me. Yes, I want to get out of here, I want to live to see another day.

Abraham pounds both fists into the wall. "What the hell is goin' on?" he growls. He's a big man, bearded and dirty, and I don't get the vibe that he's very patient about things like this, which is good. Patience is not a virtue right now, I don't think, no, we need action, fast, because that's what you do when shots are being fired, you act fast –

"Someone hit 'em," Michonne says, in that way she has, the way that makes you certain she's right.

"Maybe our people got free," Sasha says, and that has to be it, nothing else makes sense, my dad –

Eugene brushes past Sasha with a mutter and bends down to the bottom of the car, where the floor meets the wall. He has something silver and round in his hands. The bomb, or whatever it is, the thing that sent out the smoke. "What the hell are you doing?" snaps the army girl.

"I might be able to use this shell to compromise the door. By the sound of things, there might not be anyone left to open it."

"Eugene, I'm sorry, but – shut up," says the girl Glenn met. Good for her. Eugene says _okay_ and keeps doing whatever he's doing, because he thinks everyone out there might die soon. Everyone.

I never stepped back up to the slit, and Owen's by it now. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, not lit, just dangling. He watches the action outside. His eyebrows are close together. He used to get that look playing video games, when he would make one of his rare appearances that lasted long enough to grind his brother or me into the ground. "Something wicked this way comes," he murmurs, before removing the cigarette and saying, louder, "Hey, Bill Nye, you got a percentage on the likelihood of you bustin' open that door?"

Eugene doesn't get to answer, because there's another "Hey" from behind me. Carl. And that _Hey_, it demands attention, the same way his father's _Hey _would, and has. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard that voice from Carl before, not quite like that. I turn to him, just like everyone else does. And we listen as he says, without a trace of doubt in his words or his eyes, "My dad's gonna be back. They all are."

Maggie's behind him. She nods. She looks as certain as Carl. Sounds as certain, too. "They are. And we need to get ready to fight our way out with them when they do." She steps away, to the wall. She looks at the face of the pocket watch and then stretches out the chain, kneels down, begins to saw at the wood. Making another weapon. More weapons, better chances.

I have to be as sure as Maggie, as Carl. Have to have faith. _If you believe it, you can achieve it _– that was on some poster in some classroom in my past. That's what I have to go on now. Faith. Faith and love. They're odd things in this world, but they still matter. They have to still matter.

I kneel down near Maggie. I pull a zipper out of my pocket, another tool scavenged from Carl's poor jacket, and I start sawing away at my own piece of wood. It's not that hard. I might be undernourished, but if there's one area of me that's strong, it's my upper body – arms, chest, back. I have my bow to thank for that. Wherever it is now. Thinking of it makes me ache.

Only moments after I start carving, Owen steps over me and says, "Don't."

I glance at him, with his chewed cigarette, his calm face. It's not the Carl and Maggie kind of calm, it's the barely-give-a-shit calm, and it pisses me off. "Why not?"

"What's your goal, two stabbers? No. You'll want a free hand. You'll want to grab a head and hold it if you need to. Think, you know that."

"He's right, Sydney," Maggie says, flexing one of her hands before sawing some more, back and forth, back and forth, building up a sweat to rival mine. So who is she making her weapon for? Does she just want a better one? Mine's already pretty good, I think, but . . .

I look at my new work, the damage I've done to the wood, and bite the inside of my mouth.

"Save your strength. You'll need it." Owen nudges me with his boot. "I told you once, I'll tell you again. You're tiny."

"I told you once, I'll tell you again. I ain't tiny." I yank the zipper from the wall and stand. "And you're an asshole."

"You've told me that?"

"Every time we talk. In my head."

"Oh, you should hear the things I say about _you_ in my head."

Then Carl's here, to my right, a half a step in front of me. "Don't talk to her like that," he says, in an entirely different voice I've never heard before. My eyebrows go up and so do Owen's. A corner of his mouth twitches.

I edge closer to Carl. "He's just joking," I tell him. "We insult each other pretty much all the time."

"Mmhmm. And hey, man – she started it." That twitching mouth breaks into a full-on smile, and Owen ducks his head away as his teeth begin show. I could throw something after him and hope it comes out witty, but I'm distracted by gunshots, gunshots, gunshots. Shouts.

And there they are. Moans. They always come.

I let my eyelids fall. I wasn't at the prison, not during the worst of the attack. But I heard a lot running through the woods. And this, this must have been what it sounded like to be in the middle of it all. It hurts. I _snap-click _my trigger, still on my wrist but very lonely, and I miss, I _miss_ my bow. Because this weapon in my hand, this shitty pointy stick, does not know me. I don't know it. And I need something I know right now, because it's happening, it's hitting me. The impact that we might be about to die, I mean.

Carl chooses that moment to take my hand. I hold it tightly.

Yes, I'll let him protect me. I'll let him be the big strong boyfriend. But he said it himself, we keep each other safe. So I'm sure as hell protecting him, too. No matter what.


	3. Burn

Dad, Rick, Glenn, Bob.

The Terminus people could have already killed them. Just killed them. But I don't know why they would do that, after going to the trouble of putting us all in here. They must want something from us, from them. But I can't think of what that might be. Information? Are they torturing them?

Glenn was tortured once. I breathe in deep.

What information would they want? Survival tips? How we've lasted this long? Where we came from, why we aren't there now?

I just have no answers. I'm grappling, but all the possibilities I consider crumble with just a little pressure, just a second thought. By now, I should be an expert at dealing with being ignorant of the wellbeing of people I care about. The past months have proven that time and time again. But I'm not an expert. I'm not that calloused yet. I wish I was. At least right now. Because LC is standing at a slit with her head bowed, most of the hair escaping her ponytail and shielding her pale face. Because Maggie just keeps sawing at wood, even though I think we're good on the weapons front. Because Sasha keeps stopping what she's doing every five or so minutes and just spends ten seconds frozen, staring at nothing, or sometimes at the door, and because Carl won't leave my side even though we both know we should be looking for something to do besides sitting here with our wooden spikes. I don't know if he's doing that for me or for him. Or if I'm doing that for me or for him.

People say things, starting with Sasha. I catch the words, the magic words – _the cure._

She's asking Eugene about it. He says we wouldn't understand, it's beyond our comprehension. Sasha stands up, keeps asking, face tight. Michonne adds a thing or two. Abraham says nothing is going to happen to Eugene, the army girl agrees. But there's still tension, I try to push it away from me, just stay here with Carl and stay calm and prepared to fight when it's time and not worry about anything else, like a cure. They say he has a cure. That should make me feel something, but it doesn't.

Eugene is facing us all now, standing in front of the door he's been trying to trick open for the past twenty minutes. He has the kind of voice a person has when they're giving a speech.

"I was part of a ten-person team at the Human Genome Project that weaponized diseases to fight weaponized diseases. Pathogenic microorganisms with pathogenic microorganisms . . . Fire with fire."

He sounds too much like someone I knew once. I'm glad I'm with Carl, because he was here from the beginning, he's the only one in this boxcar who was here from the beginning, and we share a lot of memories, including that dark one with the clock and the computers and another explosion, much louder than the one a half-hour ago. I have trust issues with scientists, now, and I hope Carl does, too. Trust is such a luxury.

"Interdepartmental drinks were had," continues Eugene, "relationships made, information shared. I am keenly aware of all the details behind fail-safe delivery systems to kill every living person on this planet. I believe with a little tweakin' –" That's something strange about Eugene, he's apparently a genius but he has an accent like a redneck – "on the terminals in DC, we can flip the script. Take out every last dead one of 'em. Fire with fire."

Washington, DC. Where the president was, and the White House, a bunch of monuments, the Smithsonian. Abraham and the army girl were taking Eugene there. Because he has a cure, a cure, a cure, and DC can make it work.

But, really, sounds like it's not a _cure_ he's talking about. Well, a cure for the world, I guess – a cure _from _the walkers. But not a cure _for _the walkers. They'll just fall down and not get up, no fixing them. Can't fix dead.

_They're not dead. They're just different._

No, Lizzie. They're dead.

Nobody says anything for a while. Carl has my hand, sweat's building up between our palms, but I don't take mine away.

A so-called cure, a kill-all-the-walkers button, locked inside the brain of one man, a man with a bad haircut and a body meant for sitting and experimenting and researching, not running and killing and scavenging. And Abraham wants to get him all the way to DC.

"All things considered," says Eugene, "It does sound pretty badass."

Even as we sit inside a boxcar with gunshots still ringing like horrible wind-chimes just outside of these walls, these walls that are more like a prison than the prison I lived in for a year, Abraham wants to get Eugene the scientist to DC.

I know now, why it doesn't make me feel anything, the possibility that there's a cure. Because it won't ever happen. Almost definitely, it won't ever happen. Because even if – when – we get out of here, it's a long road from Georgia to DC. A road too long for one man and two guards to expect to make it through and live to tell the tale.

Unless . . .

Glenn, Maggie, Sasha, Bob, and that other girl. They were with the army people and Eugene, they told us that. So . . . do they want to go to DC with them? Was that their plan, for after they got to Terminus, if it had turned out to be a good place? No, they wouldn't leave us, me and Carl and our dads and Michonne, not again. So they'd have stayed, they'd have waited for us, tried to find us, even. And they'll stay with us once we get out of here.

_Or we'll all go, _comes a whisper from in me.

What? No. Why would we leave Georgia?

_Why wouldn't we?_

The cure. The cure, if it _could _make it to DC, safe and sound in Eugene's brain the whole way there . . . well. Eugene seems to know what he's talking about. But he would need more guards.

DC. Washington, DC. A long, long road.

But we've done harder things than long-distance travel.

"So let's get back to work," says Maggie, who's been standing and politely listening with Glenn's pocket-watch in hand. I wonder what she thinks about it, DC, if she really did want them to go with Eugene. If she wants all of us to go now.

This isn't important right now –

Get back to work, get back to work. But what work is there to be done? New, better weapons have spread throughout the car. Michonne's managed a makeshift sort of double-bladed sword, with short ends, but sharp and deadly. Owen, with a chain and Abraham's help, pulled an entire loose board off from beside one of the slits, and he started to sharpen it with that chain, but then said screw it, he'd just use it as a club. I watch him practice his swing. He used to play baseball at his junior high. I think his team won all-state, or something. Carl decided to make a second spike, something better. As for me, I still have the same weapon, my wooden knife with the Carl's-jacket hilt. I made sure it was good enough the first time around. Dad checked it and everything.

Dad. My throat closes up, I inhale sharply enough to force it open. Gonna get him back. Gonna get him back. They always get out of things like this, that's what Carl said, and he's right. The CDC, Woodbury, the prison attack. They're masters at escape, we all are. So why is my throat closing? Why are my palms sweating?

The army girl tells Carl and me we should try tying our knives to our wrists. We do, and yes, it's a good plan. Now I really could use a second knife. Tie it to my wrist, still have use of my fingers. Stupid Owen –

The outside crashes into us.

There's a loud, metal-banging sound, and Carl gasps, and then comes that heavy rolling of one of these boxcar doors. Light pours in, hard, and I don't close my eyes, but they have to adjust to see the figure with the rifle clearly. My ears know him immediately, though.

"Come on!" he yells as he comes into focus, Rick, blood on his face, teeth like a wolf's. "We fight to the fence!"

We all charge out, just that fast. But not so fast that I forget to take in what I can. Buildings are burning behind Rick, smoke fills the air, takes over the sky, a sick mimic of storm clouds. Walkers are all over the place. There are screams, there are shots and shouts, and now my boots hit asphalt, the vibration shoots up my legs and through my arms and out to shake the world even more.

_"You do not leave his side!" _someone shouts. I don't know who he is or who he means, I need to run and start to, but a hand grabs me and holds and then yanks and pushes.

"Go, go, _go!"_

Dad, guarding me, not leaving _my_ side. I hope. I know, have to _know_, because I've forgiven him and I love him, and I let myself reach out and touch his stomach, just long enough to make sure that he's warm, before I have to be a grownup again and go, go, go. Because like I said, walkers are everywhere, ghosts stumbling out from the smoke.

Fight to the fence, Rick said, to the fence. I know where it is, yeah, but – Carl? _Carl? _There, there, in between Michonne and Rick. And nearby is Owen, he's next to Abraham, he's bashing a walker's head in – LC is on my other side –

I almost run into a walker and jump up and stab it in the eye with my wrist-knife. Dad pulls me away from the body and takes down two more walkers close by, he has some long, heavy metal thing in his hand – what happened to them, what happened to them, did they do this, Dad and the others? Are they why Terminus is burning?

I see Glenn. I see Bob. Fighting like the rest of us, okay and _here_. Carl was right. They got out of it, they always do.

_Until they don't, _echoes Bob's voice in my head, but my own voice snaps back that I don't give a shit about _until, _Bob, not now, with the fence so close. Yes, the fence is close, just around this group of boxcars, I remember it well, earlier today rifle barrels poked through them like thorns. Getting to the fence means getting through the walkers, but that's nothing new. And Dad keeps me away from all the walkers after that first one, smashing in their heads when we can't avoid them, but mostly just weaving through, LC trailing along with us, her wooden stake bloodier than mine. No, between the two of them, I don't do any more fighting at all. And when we get to the fence and Dad gives me a leg up and over, even among all of my bewilderment and relief there's a stroke of something bitter, and I untie and drop that wooden knife that I was so proud of just before I roll into Glenn's arms. The knife falls on the other side of the fence. It can burn with the rest of this place.

Burn, I realize, with my bow.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A.N.: One of my readers, logicaltribbles, has put together a beautiful playlist that I think captures the atmosphere of Sydney's life perfectly. Here's the link: : / / 8 tracks com/logicaltribbles/when-it-s-quiet  
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**(take out the spaces and add in the "." before the com . . . this document wasn't very happy with the link in its original form).**

**Check it out! You won't be sorry you did. **


	4. To Be Whole

I look back at Terminus, when the time's right. When we're at that place where you know you're far enough but you're still close enough, too, I do it. I look back. Some places – some things – you shouldn't look back at, but there are some times when you have to do that glance over your shoulder, or the full-on stare, even, at what you've left behind. Right now, Terminus – it's one of those times. One of those places, one of those things. I have to look back. I have to see it burning. And I do. Best seat in the house. Flames dart up to the sky, dart down, dart back up, chasing the smoke, which rolls over on itself as it climbs up and up and up, only to twist around and snarl at us, just like a monster. Like the ghost of a monster. Walkers crawl over Terminus. Maggots. They'll catch on fire and crumble, too, the whole place will crumble.

But some people will escape, I know.

We'll be far away from here by then. We'll be somewhere . . . somewhere _else, _somewhere safe – somewhere safe enough. Somewhere safe enough that we can just be together for a while, all of us, this group, long enough for us to remember what it feels like to be one whole, working, living unit.

No more looking back. I turn and go with my group.

. . . . .

"S'right here," my dad says when we've come to a place where the smell of smoke isn't so ungodly thick and the loudest noises are the sounds of the woods – dry leaves, creaking trees – and the heavy breathing, the muttering of our people. Dad, he's pointing to a spot in the ground, and it doesn't look too much different from any other spot, but I remember it. He brushes his hand under another spot right under a tree, tossing up dead brush and dirt until a small shovel-like thing shows itself. Dad throws that to Rick, who gets on his knees and begins to dig.

"What the hell're we still around here for?" growls someone from behind me. Abraham.

"Guns," Rick says. "Some supplies." Then, louder, in between breaths and the sound of the shovel doing its thing, "Go along the fences . . ."

_Chh, Chh, _goes the shovel.

"Use the rifles . . ."

_Chh . . . Chh . . . Chh._

"Take out the rest of them."

_Chh. Chh._

"What?" Bob comes up next to Carl, next to me. Rick stops and looks over his shoulder at him.

"They don't get to live." Then back to the dirt.

My fingers flutter, drying my clammy hands. My dad's leaning on that tree he got our shovel thing from, watching Rick and biting something in his mouth, like he does sometimes when he's thinking.

"Rick, we got out," Glenn says after a little slice of just the digging and the breathing and the leaves. "It's over."

The bag of guns, the guns – and other stuff – that we picked off of the corpses of Joe's group, appears from the dirt, a shock of blue. Rick pulls out a revolver, checks it for bullets. "It's not over till they're all dead," he says in the meantime.

"The hell it isn't!" The army girl. "That place is _on fire!" _She throws an arm up, in the direction of the hellhole. "Full of walkers!"

Rick doesn't seem bothered. Come to think of it, Rick doesn't even seem . . . _angry,_ not really. Not in the rabid animal, rip-out-your-throat-with-his-teeth kind of way, at least. Whatever he's feeling – whatever the people who took them _made _him feel – he's just being matter-of-fact now. _They don't get to live. _Like he's talking about slaughtering pigs for food no matter how attached Carl has gotten to them.

"We're not dickin' around with this crap." Abraham again, harsh, understandably. He doesn't know Rick, doesn't get who he is, as a person and to us. "We just made it out."

Rick stands.

"The fences are down," says Maggie, gentler, with the respect she knows Rick deserves, even if he is being irrational. "They'll run or die."

Irrational. Do I think Rick's being irrational? I really don't know, I don't – I know I want to get away from here. But I don't know what those people did to Rick, to my dad, or to Glenn or Bob or anyone else. What they planned to do to us. But Bob wants to go. Glenn wants to go. Does my dad? He's still just thinking, fingers tapping on the tree, with a look at Rick, a look to the ground, a look back at Terminus, a look at the group, and finally, a look straight at me. I lift my eyebrows a tiny bit. He grinds his jaw and gives a look to Rick again. Rick's giving one back. All Rick needs is a nod from Dad, I know, and then it'll be us going around and picking those people off one by one, _BANG! BANG!, _like snipers, for better or worse. Just a nod from Dad. Or a shake of his head. That's what it comes down to.

But then a figure appears behind Dad and Rick, stepping out from somewhere so it's positioned just in the middle of them, twenty feet back. I shift my weight, adjust the bow that isn't there, and right as I open my mouth to warn someone, I recognize that it's a who, not a what, not just _a figure._ Not a walker. Not a stranger. I go rigid.

Dad, I don't know if he sees me or if he hears or just senses something, the way I think he does sometimes, but he twists to look over his outstretched arm and goes as rigid as me, I swear.

It's Carol. She's dirty, she looks exhausted, but she's very much her. Alive and well enough, looks like. She's carrying some stuff, some weapons, one of which is a crossbow and its bolts, another of which is a bow carrying a tied-on quiver and a little bundle of arrows. The bow, my bow, how wonderful, but it's a sideshow. Carol's the main event. How she's here, why she's here, is so far beyond me that my brain won't even try to grab the strands and tie them together, or maybe it just doesn't want to, because my heart is in control right now, filling and filling and not slowing down, and it swells so much that it reaches my throat, gives me a lump there that keeps me from saying her name. _Carol._

Then my dad does something that I've never seen him do with anyone but me. I hear his breath rush out all ragged, and he runs to her, Carol, fast. He throws his arms around her and she does the same with him, and they push their faces into each other's shoulders and I think hold on as tight as they can. It makes the lump in my throat get even bigger and I raise my hand to my mouth to push it back. That's when I discover that there's a smile there, a crazy, every-tooth smile. Tears want to come but I'm smiling, too. That's what happens when you feel too much of a good thing, it almost kills you, and you don't care. Carl takes my shoulder, the one farthest away from him, so his arm is almost around me but his palm has a good, steady hold. Maybe he's afraid I'll fall over or maybe he's afraid he'll fall over. She belongs to him, too. Maybe he's afraid of both.

Dad lifts Carol off the ground some, that's how happy he is. Happy.

_Happy, not horrified, no, not horrified to see _Carol –

My smile snaps back into my mouth. My eyes shut themselves, like someone pretended to throw something at me. My head twists to the side, and down, my nose and eyes all crinkle, by themselves. It's involuntary, every piece of it, this sudden physical, mental withdraw from good things.

No, please. Not now. Let me have this. Let me enjoy this.

I open my eyes and force my head straight. I take a deep breath. I watch Dad and Carol. I drift up to them. Slowly, the bad stuff drains out. The good stuff comes back in, like a warm mist, floating through me and growing until it's almost too much to hold. I like it. It's good. Yes, yes. Let me enjoy this. I'm enjoying this.

Dad and Carol. He pulls away from her, and her face and eyes are red but she's also smiling. But Dad goes to her again, he's not done. He presses his head back into her shoulder. It's just for a second this time. Then he stands straight and just looks at her some more.

Yes, he's happy. I'm happy for him.

Rick's come up to them, and I remember. I remember what Rick told me in that house, when things were bad between us and about to get worse. He told me he'd made Carol leave. That she'd – that she'd killed Karen and David –

He can't send her away again. He can't.

I hear him whisper something. I think it's _Did you do that? _Terminus. He must mean Terminus. I don't know what part exactly, but something. The fire, the gunshots. It couldn't all have been my dad and the others, could it?

Carol pulls her lips in tight. Her eyes are close to overflowing. She gives a tiny couple of nods, a sort of gasp with a sort of smile, and then, then Rick hugs her just as tight as my dad did. Rick.

And a tear comes from me then, hot, and a million different muscles relax, because everything's alright. No matter what, everything's alright.

Carol pulls away from Rick soon, though. She gives him a sudden wide-eyed look, and says, breathlessly, "You have to come with me."

. . . . .

She takes us down a dirt road to a cabin.

It's a rundown cabin. It almost stops me in my tracks, because from out here it's very, very much like my dad's old house, this cabin. Same kind of untrustworthy porch that sometimes snaps under your foot and makes you freeze but never gives way. A woodpile with its short logs trying to run from the top. Antlers hung around, trophies from great hunts. Dad and Merle never had anything stuffed. They just kept the things from the kill that wouldn't rot. I liked it better that way. Antlers don't stare at you.

I keep moving, because that's all in the past and this is a _now _cabin with _now _things inside.

We climb a hill up to the cabin. Right when we get to the top, a man comes out, a big black man, and he's holding a baby.

Carl's gone from my side like a shot.

Rick, Sasha, they're gone too. Everything dropped, left behind them, they're moving forward now. The rest of us keep walking, because we know this isn't our moment. We can enjoy it, and even have smaller moments of our own, but this first one, the best one, isn't ours.

I want it to be. I want to chase Carl. But I don't. I rein myself in like a horse and watch Rick scoop Judith from Tyreese and cradle her to him like she's the most precious thing in the world, which she might be. I watch Sasha take hold of her brother, watch him hold her back, listen to her either laugh or sob and see his eyes squeeze shut. I stop, close enough but not too close. I just observe. Once again – best seat in the house. Rick and Carl bundle up with Judith, beautiful baby Judith. Rick kisses her head. Inhales her. Carl has his back to me, but I can hear him – or imagine I can – whispering, almost choking, air shoved from his lungs to make room for the happiness. It's the voice he used with me the other night, when we first found each other again.

I think of him at the prison, after we found the bloody carrier, when he wouldn't stop shooting at a walker that was already down. When I had to get him and his father out of there. When he screamed at his dad while he was almost-dying on a couch, how he cried to me. That's all gone now. Way back there, with Terminus, with the prison and the farm, with all the places left burning in our wake. Here, now, Judith is alive. With her dad and her brother who love her, love her so much.

Their little family, their _blood _family, is back together again. A dad and two kids. It's more than most of us have. And it's wonderful, and today is one of the best days since Day One of the turn. I feel that in my bones.

But there's something in me, something apart from those good-feeling bones, that's very out of place. Like Carol showing up outside of Terminus, only – different. It's the same kind of flip-flop _This doesn't belong There _feeling, but _This _isn't a good thing this time around. The _This _inside of me is an ache. A little one, drowning underneath the joy – and I swear I'm feeling joy, and a hell of a lot of it – but still. It's there. That little ache. Little but deep. Like a nasty splinter embedded in the pit of my stomach.

Why. Why, why.

Something, a magnet, pulls my eyes to Dad. LC isn't far beyond him. Not standing with him. I'm not standing with him, either, not out of any sense of something bad, but just because this is how we fell, me and him, me over here and him over there. We're in a crooked line, the three of us. A broken family. Just like the good old days.

The good old days. That makes me think of something, someone, and I twist to search for him. I look past the smiling faces, the content faces, past Glenn holding Maggie's hand. And I find him. He's behind everyone else. One hand is in his jacket pocket, the other is holding his bloody board-club, and his blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, with strands of it stretching down to hide parts of his eyes. But I can see them well enough. I can see his whole face well enough.

The splinter plunges deeper into me, maybe it even grows, maybe it's meant to become a tree.

Because his face? Owen's face? It's _my_ ache. A picture of it. A portrait. Full color, every detail. On display, I know, for a limited time only. But it's there. And I can't take my eyes off of it. _Good art speaks to you_, someone told me once, _but great art speaks for you._

I'm still staring at him, still feeling my splinter – God, it's twisting, it's bad – when a hand takes my arm and pulls. Pulls me. Pulls out the splinter, _pop_. Because the hand is Carl's, and Carl is telling me _Come here. _And he pulls, pulls, pulls me over to Rick and Judith. I stand with them, three turns to four. I tell Judith how beautiful she is, and Carl puts his arm around me. I like that. I like this. Them. Being with them. They're a good family, a blood-bound unit inside of our bigger one, one of the bricks making up the house. I want to stay here, under Carl's arm and touching Judith with Rick standing guard over us all, him the adult and us the kids, and I will. For as long as they'll have me, I will.


	5. Rose and Thorns

Happy reunions are something to be treasured. They're also something that has to happen fast, in the world we live in. So, minutes after we all find each other again, after Judith is back in Rick and Carl's arms and Tyreese is back in Sasha's, Rick himself says we have to go. My dad says _yeah, but where?_ and Rick says somewhere far away from Terminus.

It's back to the tracks. I hope we get off them soon. But for now, it's okay. No complaints. No more. Not today.

Abraham and the army girl and Eugene, they stay with us. Nobody says anything, at least not that I can hear, about anyone going to DC. I don't know if they've changed their minds, if they're waiting for the right moment, or what. But I don't dwell on it. I dwell on Carl. On Judith. On how damn good my bow feels in my hand and my quiver feels on my back.

We stop to eat something when there's a sort-of comfortable distance between us and Terminus, maybe two hours later, and only for about twenty minutes. There are expired beef jerky strips, pecans, six cans of beans, two cans of soup, and a half-eaten family-size package of individually-wrapped peanut butter crackers. All from Joe's group's stash. We save some of it, but just a little. Tomorrow, or at least soon, I'll – Dad and I'll have to go hunting. I'll be going hunting with him again. That's kind of . . . weird.

Carl and I sit on a log under a shady tree. He feeds Judith while I break open a pack of the peanut butter crackers. I bite into one. Stale, but food. And _mm. _It's been a while since I've had peanut butter.

"Good?" asks Carl.

"Gourmet."

"Gimme one."

"Open up." He does, and I pop it into his mouth. It's too big, and he has to cling onto Judith and the bottle with one arm for a second to reach up and save the fourth of the cracker he can't gulp down. Crumbs fall from his mouth, and I grin as he struggles to chew.

"Are you trying to choke me?" he says when he can halfway-talk again.

"Sorry." I blink my eyes, look at the sky as I raise a cracker to my lips. "I guess I just overestimated you. I mean, I thought you could handle it –"

He swallows, licks his lips, which are curling up. "Oh, so you're trying to start a fight?"

"I would never try to start a fight with a guy holding a baby," I say, much too sweet, and that does it, that pulls his smile all the way out, and he shakes his head and readjusts Judith and the bottle.

"As soon as she's full . . ."

"What? What're you gonna do to me?" I lean in closer.

"I'll think of something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, just keep in mind, I bite back."

"I know you do."

We kiss over Judith's head. It tastes like peanut butter. I couldn't care less.

"Hey," he says, pulling back. Which is probably a good thing. I just remembered that he and I, _us_, like we are now, isn't public knowledge. I know Dad knows, Rick and probably Michonne know, and Owen, too, but that's it, I'm pretty sure. I look around as Carl says, "I have something for you," and check if anyone – yep. There's Maggie and Glenn. Glenn looks away when I see them. Maggie does, too, right after she gives me a little grin and a tilt of the head, like, _Well, look at you._

The blush comes across my cheeks like fire. I rub it away.

"Could you take her?" Carl asks.

I would love to, and I do. I pull Judith onto my lap, and she whimpers a bit when the bottle breaks from her mouth, but I get it back to her soon enough and she's content again. I breathe in her smell. She still has the baby smell. I want to hold her tighter than I can. I've missed her. Really, really missed her.

Carl's hand is shoved deep into his pocket, searching around. He finally draws it out, and it's not alone. A thin silver chain swings from it. He catches the chain and kind of sighs, running his thumb over the metal before presenting it to me.

On the end of the chain, built right into the necklace instead of dangling from it, is a tiny rose. My left arm snakes around Judith and that hand takes the bottle, holding it kind of awkwardly but good enough for her, and I reach out to the little flower. I brush my index finger over it, feel the rough texture of the petals.

"It was on a walker," Carl says. He clears his throat, shifts around. "I put it down and saw it. It made me think of you . . . If – if it bothers you that that's how I got it –"

"No, it doesn't bother me," I whisper, honestly. Maybe that's wrong. But Carl can't exactly go to a mall and pick me out something nice. And anyway, Maggie's wedding ring is from a walker.

Carl looks pleased. Then he goes serious. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I just . . . I just wanted something that made me think of you." He lays the necklace on my knee. His hand stays over it, the necklace, my knee. "But now I have you for that."

What am I supposed to say? I'm not good at these things, even with him. Especially with him. My blush is back, and I giggle, me, and I'm not a giggler. "It's beautiful," I finally come up with. That's what the girls always said on TV. And it's true. The necklace itself and the fact that Carl's giving it to me. My boyfriend is giving me a necklace. One he wanted to keep even when he thought I was gone forever, just to remember me by. I swallow and shake back my ponytail. "Put it on me."

He stands and comes behind me, the necklace and his fingers warm as both touch my skin. He draws the chain back, fumbles for a minute, and then his hands are gone and the rose dangles from my neck on its own. The chain's too short for me to see it, but I can reach up and feel it. That's enough. Better, actually. It stays closer to me that way. "What do you think, pretty girl?" I ask Judith, who's finished her bottle. She gazes at the rose and then sticks her hand out to play with it. She tugs it, maybe too hard, but it stays on. That's a good sign. I catch her hand, bring it down, and then twist my head up and around at Carl. "She approves."

He smiles.

"You should kiss me again."

"People'll see."

"They already saw. Or they will. Let 'em."

So he kisses me again. It's a good kiss. He's a good guy.

. . . . .

I always thought Owen stayed at the back of Joe's group because that's where I wanted to stay. And maybe he did. But now, with this group of strangers, he's hanging near the back all on his own. So, a half-hour or so before I figure afternoon will become evening, a while after we've left the train tracks for empty dirt road – thank God – I tell Carl I'm going to go talk to him.

"Want me to go with you?"

"Not now." I check him over. Tyreese has Judith right now, so it's just Carl and his gun and one of the small bags from Joe's camp. It was Harley's, I think. I can't remember if Harley had anything worth having. Maybe cards. Cards would be nice. "But you guys should talk. Get to know each other."

He's quiet, staring at the ground.

"He saved my life."

"I know."

"He was my neighbor. My old best friend's brother."

"I know, Syd. And . . . I told you before, I trust you."

"But?"

He sighs. "No but," he says after a few steps, even though he made it sound like there was definitely one coming. "I trust you. Go talk to him."

I touch his arm and turn back, walking against traffic. I pass Dad and give him a tight smile. We haven't talked much. Nothing to talk about, I guess.

That's a lie.

I reach Owen and turn on my heel, falling into step with him. "How's it goin'?"

"Fan-_tastic_."

I wait for him to go on, but I'm disappointed. His sarcastic remarks usually go into greater detail. "Did you get a gun?" I know he did. Rick made sure everyone got some sort of weapon.

"Yep. Billy's. Beretta M9. I'm more of a revolver man myself, but it's a pretty badass gun, I'll admit."

"Sure you can handle it?"

"You need somethin', Sydney?"

That throws me. Hurts a little, too. "Just checkin' on you, I guess. Been a hell of a day."

"Uh-huh. Thanks for that."

"Thanks for what?"

"Terminus."

I know where he's going immediately. "Owen, hey –"

"You do remember that you're the reason I was there, right? _Owen, wait, don't go! Come with us to this awesome place full of cotton candy and roses –"_

"Hey – shut the hell up." I stop. He doesn't. "Hey!"

Now he does. I hissed it, though, that last _Hey_, so it didn't catch the attention of the others. They keep moving.

This isn't the first time Owen and I have argued mid-walk like this. But he kind of went too far here.

"I didn't know what Terminus was," I say.

"No, but you knew what it could be."

"_Anything _could go to shit, Owen, that's life."

"I told you, though. I told you what Joe thought."

"And Joe was such a smart guy."

Something sparks in him. And I think maybe _I've_ kind of gone too far. "Joe was a lot of things. But he wasn't stupid. We should've trusted his instincts. _I _should have."

_Father knows best._

"And what, left us? Gone off on your own? You were giving yourself a death sentence, Owen."

"And you damn near gave me one instead."

I'm still. I want to shoot him, a little. Or at least punch him. Or cry. "I was trying to save your life. My bad." Then I walk, past him, after the others, the ones who don't blame me for almost dying.

Which Owen almost did.

Ten or fifteen steps later –

"Sydney."

I stop, run my tongue around my mouth, turn with my chin and eyebrows up. Owen's standing there with tight lips, hands gripping the undone opening of his jacket, fingers in a frenzy. He looks away, opens his mouth and leaves it like that a while before the words come. "I'm out of cigarettes. Going through nicotine withdrawal. It's a bitch."

I don't move, don't speak.

"I'm sorry," he says, slowly, dark eyes promising me it's the truth. "I'm out of line. I'm a dick. An ungrateful bastard. Et cetera, et cetera."

He had me nodding at _dick._ "I'm sorry, too," I murmur. Even though I'm not sure I am.

"Don't be." His fingers are a blur, but his eyes look ready to shut and stay that way. He walks up to meet me again, grinding his twitching hands together, cracking his neck, gazing out at the woods. "I know you were trying to save my ass. For whatever reason."

"I told you my reasons."

"Right. You _get it._" We're walking together again. "All of my issues. You're just like me."

"Don't believe I ever said that."

"No, you didn't. Smart girl. Because you don't know the half of it."

"You could always tell me."

"I could. But I won't."

"Never?"

"You're still working on the assumption that I'm staying with this group on a permanent basis."

"Why wouldn't you? Still think you want to die?"

"Brat, if I wanted to die, I'd be a man and blow out my brains."

"Well, why else would you leave?"

"I didn't say I'm going to. I'm saying don't rule it out."

I study him. His hands never stop moving. "And I said why _would _you?"

He doesn't answer right away. "Maybe I think some alone time would do me good."

We walk in silence for a while.

Then I say, "I don't want you to go."

We walk in silence some more.

Then he says, "You should."

I stop again. He doesn't. He keeps right on following my group, and so eventually, I follow him. But I don't catch up.

Owen seems intent on convincing me that he's a horrible person. Kind of always has. I brushed it off before, because Owen Wells, he was a bully. An asshole. Not a _bad guy. _Not a _bad guy _the way Joe was a bad guy.

_But he was in juvie._

That's what Joe said. Owen admitted it. And what did he say after?

_What I did to land in juvie, sweetheart? It ain't __nothing__ compared to the things I've done since the turn._

And I told him that didn't matter. That none of it mattered. But that was before there was Judith, and everyone else, before there was so much at stake out here in the middle of the forest where there are no fences or walls or locks. Now . . . Now it might matter.

Now it might be time for me to start listening.


	6. Open Book, Closed Book

My wakeup call comes in the form of fingers brushing hair from my forehead. These fingers pull me from a nice cool nothingness into an even cooler, gray world, and into that foggy time between sleeping and being awake where you don't know really anything, and so when my eyes open they're looking for Owen, telling me I slept in late and Joe's ready to go. But it's Dad I see, kneeling next to my head, and the past few days snap back and tumble over me and burrow back into my body and mind. Dad. Carl. Everyone. Terminus. DC. A silver rose necklace and a boy's jacket.

Dad jerks his head and I know what he means. Hunting time. My head's in Carl's lap. I get up easily, slowly, and he doesn't stir. Find my loaded bow. Pull my quiver over my shoulder. Just four arrows in it, that quiver, plus the one on the string. Low number. I don't like the low number.

Rick's up. He's the only one. He's crouching by the embers of one of our fires as the rest of our people and kind-of our people sleep in bundles around him. "Show your dad how it's done," he murmurs as we go by.

"I'm tryin'. He's a slow learner."

That gets a huff of a laugh from him.

Dad presses a strip of beef jerky and two peanut butter crackers in my hand as he leads the way into the woods. Quiet steps.

After ten minutes' worth of those quiet steps, we shoot at the same squirrel at the same time, which isn't like us. My arrow hits its chest, his hits the eye. Dad glances at me and then goes and rips the thing from the tree it's pinned to.

"Since when do you get first shot?" he asks. He's playing around.

But I shift my weight and my tone doesn't come out as light as his. "Figured it was about time."

He meets my eyes, something happens there, and then he gives a sort of half shrug, pulling the arrows out of the squirrel's body. He gives me mine. "Fair enough. You get the next one."

I restring, he reloads, we move on.

And I watch him. We weave through trees and bushes and listen, look, but my gaze keeps slipping back to Dad, again and again. Can't help it. When we hunt, I watch Dad, that's just how it is. Every detail. How he steps, in that perfect heel-toe way that lets him sneak up on pretty much anything he wants. How his eyes dart around when he catches movement in the trees, and he always catches it, I think, like a hawk. The way those same eyes make frequent trips down to the ground before us, just in case there's something there for them to snag on, a hook for us to bite onto.

But this morning, something's different. Because we're most definitely squirrel hunting – we don't have time to track a deer God knows how far, let alone haul it around or skin it or even cook it – but Dad's eyes are on the ground more than they're off of it. And there are no tracks, none that I can see, and I'm a damn good tracker. Maybe not as good as he is – or maybe so. I don't know. We haven't had a competition in a while, like we used to, in the old days. Point is, no tracks here. No time to bother with a deer. So –

"Why're you lookin' for tracks?"

His eyes immediately flick up to the trees. "I ain't."

"Yeah, you are."

"Just like bein' aware of the stuff around me. You oughta do the same."

"I do. Always."

"Right." And now his hunter's eyes come to me. I know exactly what they catch on and reach up to touch it just as he says, "Pretty necklace."

The silver is lukewarm, a perfect medium between the heat from my body and the chill of the air. "Carl gave it to me."

Dad nods just a little. "I know." He turns and moves. I follow. Like always. We head north ten paces – his eyes are on the ground almost the entire time – and then he says, "How's your side?"

"It's fine. Doesn't hurt much anymore." I'm not lying. A good night's sleep did me good – it doesn't even feel like it's bleeding much, this gunshot wound of mine. And those chills from yesterday are almost completely gone. I never told him about those, but they kind of worried me, after we got out of Terminus and I had time to worry about them. My mind kept going back to when T-Dog got blood poisoning on the highway, and Dale said it could kill him without meds . . .

Oh, Dale. T-Dog.

"Really?" Dad says. What? Oh. I told him I was fine. So what, he doesn't believe me?

"Don't know why you think I'd lie," I say, casually.

"'Cause you're too tough to complain. You always been that way."

It's a compliment, I guess. But he says it like it irritates him. Can't tell if it's a teasing sort of thing or not. He looks down at me now. "Remind me to take a look at it when we camp tonight, alright?"

"Alright." I'm not going to remind him.

A few more minutes of walking silence, but then we take a break, lean up against a big tree, so we're facing different ways but my shoulder sometimes touches his arm, or his arm sometimes touches my shoulder, depending on who moves. Neither of us do, much. This is a pretty good way to hunt sometimes. Just hang around and wait. My favorite way to hunt squirrels, though, is to walk around and scare them out of their hiding spots. That's how Dad likes to do it, too. That's why I know that we're here against this tree mostly because he wants to talk. Which makes me nervous. I listen to the leaves whisper and whistle, listen to Dad's breathing and compare it to mine. I take one-and-a-half for every two of his, or so. I try to breathe deeper. It makes my chest hurt, so I stop.

"So," Dad says before too long. "You and your boyfriend gone public now?"

I take a long inhale, long exhale. "We were never keepin' it a secret. Just never had much of a chance to tell anyone."

"Well, you told 'em now." He checks something on his crossbow, lifting it up to his eyes, dropping it down again. He spits away from our tree, and then, "I don't like the two of you sleepin' next to each other."

I roll my head up to the sky and then away from him, out into the part of the woods he can't see. I had hoped, vainly, that this conversation wouldn't happen. But I knew it would, really. Of course it would. Carl and I even talked about it last night, when I crawled over to him in the dying firelight.

_Your dad won't let you stay here, _he said as I laid my head on his outstretched legs.

_Well, until he says something, I'm staying here. If that's good with you._

He smiled and started playing with my hair, freed from its ponytail and recently untangled thanks to a half-hour of my dedicated fingers combing through its thousands of knots.

Dad hadn't said anything, not then. I could feel him watching, don't get me wrong, but he let us be. But now he's bringing it up, when we're alone, and probably will be for a good few hours. Smart plan.

"We slept by each other after the prison," I tell the forest.

"I wasn't there to disapprove."

_No. You weren't. _"I slept next to Owen – under the same blanket – for a lot of nights." I shouldn't bring up Owen. He doesn't belong in this conversation. But now here he is.

"That was different and you know it."

"Well, what're you worried about?" I strum my bowstring, feel it vibrate, ready. There's a walker, way, way off in the woods. I don't think it's coming our way, though. "Carl and I aren't about to – try anything in the middle of our camp."

"I ain't worried about things now. I'm worried about when we find a new place to stay, a place to hole up for a while. A place with rooms. Nooks and crannies."

I snort. "You really think you have something to worry about?"

"I was a fourteen-year-old boy once."

Carl's closer to fifteen now, but I don't say it.

What time of the year is it, anyway, exactly? Is it September yet? Am I thirteen now? I'm sure someone would know, someone wise enough to keep track of dates. Maybe Dad would know. But that question doesn't belong here anymore than Owen did.

"Carl would never do anything I didn't want to do. And I told you before, at the prison – I'm not about to do . . . _that._"

"Good. Hey." He elbows me, I look at him, he nods above us. "You gonna take that shot or what?"

I follow his eyes. A squirrel is up a tall oak, munching on a nut. So much for being aware. _Well done, Sydney_, I tell myself as I shoot the thing down, _Keep it the hell up._

I go pick up the corpse, pull out my arrow, toss the kill to Dad. He brought along this long thin rope, and he tied the first squirrel to it and he ties this one to it, too. "I still don't like you sleepin' by him," he says.

And I say, "Well, sorry."

Now, _there's_ something I haven't done in a while. Said something . . . _snarky_ to Dad. I have a bad habit of saying things without thinking them through, but usually not things quite so likely to make my dad give me that dangerous look he's giving me now. He lowers the string. The dead squirrels dangle, spinning a bit. "You really wanna have a power struggle right now?" he asks, voice low.

I don't answer. Truth is, I don't. But I like sleeping next to Carl.

Truth is also that I haven't lived under my dad's rules in a while. And getting back to that, after basically being my own boss for a good chunk of time . . . Well. A few power struggles might be a given. Should probably accept that now.

Dad stares me down, and I stare back, until I guess he's decided I've decided to back down. Which I haven't. I just haven't pushed the issue, either. Not now. Not yet. "You can keep doin' it for now," he says, wrapping the string around his arm. "In camps, without a blanket. But once we're under a roof, you can say _adios _to that arrangement." He walks past me. Like that's that. Any objections? Any arguments? Too bad.

My hands curl into fists, and the question, it just comes out, I swear, it just comes out.

"What _arrangement_ did you and LC have?"

And now I can't take it back.

Dad stops. I hear him. I hear him turn, I hear him take one, two steps back to me, not all the way back, just closer. Then, "What?"

I turn, too. Gotta. And we're in another stare-down now. I want to cross my arms but don't. That would be childish. "You two were on your own for a while, right?" I say, keeping my voice under control. Or, trying to. "After Beth got taken?" That's what Dad told Maggie had happened, I heard him. Beth was taken, kidnapped, by someone in a car with a cross on the back. And then it was just Dad and LC. He didn't say anything about that time. How long it was. What they did.

Dad steps closer.

"What happened with the two of you?" I ask. I don't know if I want to hear the answer. But I think I might have to. Yeah, I need to. I really do. Because there is a big difference between the Dad who hates LC and the Dad who doesn't. One is on my side. The other I don't know. At all.

Oh, whichever Dad he is, he can't believe I'm saying this. He's mad, he's caught off guard, too. But it could be a cover. Is it a cover? "Look," he starts, "I don't know what you think you know –"

I plant my feet. I cross my arms, gripping my bow in my sweaty left hand, which is pressed against my right bicep, pressed _hard. _"I know you and Mom slept together after the divorce. More than once. Maybe a lot more."

Nope, the anger and disbelief, they're not covers. They come full-force now, and I don't think you can fake that kind of stuff. And what's that, Dad? Is that – the slightest, _slightest _blush? Or maybe just the fury kicking in?

He spins away for a minute. His hand comes up to his mouth and falls. I just stand waiting, trying to swallow. I've never done anything like this before. Not with Dad.

But there are a lot of blanks I need him to fill and this is just one of them.

Dad's done a full three-sixty. He's facing me again, and he points. Nothing good ever comes from him pointing at me. "First of all. What your mom and me did or didn't do, _ever_, ain't none of your business."

I give a dry smile. An Owen smile. A _Merle _smile. I say, "Right," and that's too far.

"Jesus, Sydney – _watch the damn attitude!"_

Too far, definitely too far, and I'm staring at the ground. I feel hot all over, which is maybe where the expression _in hot water _comes from, but I also feel like I'm rolling down a hill and just picking up speed, more and more, can't stop till the hill ends. And it's a big hill.

Dad's voice goes deep. "I know you been through some sh – crap since the prison. So have I. So has everybody else. It don't mean you get to act like a five-year-old."

"Dads don't worry about five-year-olds sleepin' next to boys."

Now he comes right up to me. His eyes are knives, they hurt, literally hurt, even before I make myself meet them, and when I do, with my jaw nailed closed, they only hurt more. Deep down, makes-me-want-to-cry hurt. But I don't. Cry, I mean. Like I said. My jaw's set. And I'm on that hill.

I think, if it were two years ago, Dad would have at least given me a swat or two by now. Told me to straighten out or else he'd give me something to really cry about. He was a lot different back then, and so was I. I'm older, and he's mellowed out some, in ways like that. But what does he do these days, when he decides I've stepped out of line? Ground me? Hah. Tell me how disappointed he is in me?

What're you gonna do, Dad?

I don't think I'm in the wrong.

It takes him a while, but he goes from glaring to speaking. Scary voice. Oh, scary voice. It still has an effect on me, I won't lie.

"You'd best quit backtalkin' me, girl."

Shit. Those eyes.

"You want me to treat you like you ain't a kid? _Act_ like you ain't."

Act like I'm not a kid. _Act _like it. Okay, Dad. Here – What if I kill a couple people? Would that do the trick, would that be _not acting like a kid enough_? Or what if I got drunk, smoked cigarettes, ooh, almost get raped – twice? That grownup enough for you, Daddy? Or what if I survive for _weeks_ without you? _Without you! _

Oh, but I shouldn't blame you. No. You were looking for me. Of course you were.

"Did you sleep with her?" I ask.

Hear the wind blow. The leaves rustle. The animals run. The twigs snap. My heart beat.

Eyes on eyes.

"No," he finally, finally says. "No. Satisfied?"

I don't answer.

"Better be. 'Cause that's the last time I ever answer a question like that. You hear me?"

A squirrel runs up a tree behind him. I don't say anything. I look away.

"I love you," he says. "But I ain't your friend, not first. Nah, first I'm your dad. Your father. And I decide what you do and don't need to know 'bout me. 'Bout what I do . . . 'bout what I've done."

But my life should be an open book to him. Oh, that's fair.

"We clear?"

It takes me a second, but I say it. "We're clear."

He lets out a long breath. His shoulders go down a few inches.

I nod over his shoulder. "There's a squirrel there." Because it's his shot. _That's_ fair.

He bags it. We move on.

One day, maybe soon, he's going to ask about all that time from my open-book life that he missed. He's going to want to know about when it was me and Rick and Carl, when it was me and Rick and Carl and Michonne, and all the time that followed after I ruined that. All that time when it was me and Owen and Joe and Len and all the other assholes. The assholes _I _survived. _Without_ him.

I don't know _when_ he's going to ask. When he'll decide it's the right time. But when he does, the book's closing. Because _I _decide what he does and doesn't need to know about _me_. What I do, what I've done. Whether he likes it or not.

We don't talk much more. I ask him once, after morning's in full bloom, if the group's going to wait for us. He says he and Rick agreed to meet three miles east of the campsite by noon. Then there's more silence. More squirrels. They're thick here. I know I must be hungry, even though I don't feel it. I don't think my body understands hunger very well anymore. It vomits too much. But now, now that I'm back with the group, maybe I'll start eating better again. Keep more stuff down. Make the bones in my stomach and hips jut out a little less. Start cooking squirrels before I eat them.

We walk. We hunt. The sun crawls up and up over our heads, the air gets warmer, but it doesn't melt the tension between Dad and me.

I've finished rolling down that hill. I'm on my ass at the bottom now. I'm tired.

I don't _want _there to be tension between Dad and me.

But . . . damn it. Things have changed.

One thing that hasn't changed is that I watch Dad.

Like I said. Can't be helped.

And when I've watched him scan the ground for the thousandth time, it hits me, what he's doing. And I tell him. Blurt it out.

"You're checking for tracks, aren't you?"

"I'm a tracker, ain't I?"

"You're not tracking a deer. That wouldn't make sense."

"Just a habit, Sydney."

"You're checking for human tracks."

He doesn't answer.

"What were they, Dad?" No attitude this time around. My voice has gone soft, all on its own. I've thought about it a lot, what those people might have been, what plans they might have had, and all the answers I've come up with scare me. Unsurprisingly. But if I know the truth, then maybe I can get used to it. Or maybe it won't even be as bad as I'm thinking it could be.

Maybe it's because my voice did that, got softer, that Dad stops. He just stands there for a while. Finally, he looks me in the eye. Nicer this time. But no, nicer isn't the word. His eyes have gone soft like my voice went soft. "People ain't always people no more, Sydney."

"I know that." The Governor taught me that lesson. Joe and his group drove it home.

I think Dad might try to leave it at that, but he doesn't. He swallows hard, clears his throat, checks around us, brings his gaze back to mine. Then down. Then up. "That meat they were cookin', when we first got there? It wasn't from no animal."

That takes a very long time to register. Then my spine curls a tiny bit, my gag reflex tries its hand at bringing up my little breakfast but I fight it back, no, I throw up enough as it is, remember how much better I'm going to start doing – ?

But that meat. That meat almost touched my lips. Or did it touch my lips? I try to remember. I can't. Oh, God.

"They were going to eat us."

"Don't matter now."

"That's why Rick wanted to kill them all." We should have.

"We're gettin' away from 'em. That's what matters."

"You're lookin' for their tracks."

"I'm lookin' for anyone's tracks."

"But if you find any, they're most likely theirs."

"I _ain't_ found any. They ain't around. They ain't comin' after us, and if they did, we'd take 'em on. Take 'em down. We can hold our own, you know that."

My own eyes dart across the ground. He should have told me this. I could have been looking all this time.

"Babe, there ain't no tracks. We're fine."

Fine. Cannibals running around, but we're fine.

"Come on. Still plenty of time before noon. Lotta squirrels to shoot."

Cannibals. Cannibals.

But if I freeze up, he'll remember it. He won't tell me anything like this again. And it'll be one more reason for him to treat me like a little kid instead of a half-grown woman who has to act twice her age most of the time.

So I go on with him. I hunt some more. Shoot squirrels.

Look for human tracks, look for human tracks, look for human _anything. _See nothing.

But some people – some _cannibals_ – had to get out of Terminus. And they're out here in the world. Maybe in this forest. And in that scenario, they're the hunters. We're the squirrels.

No. No. We are not squirrels. Just because someone wants to make us prey doesn't mean we aren't predators. Walkers try to eat us all the time. And we kill them. We win.

_Unless we don't._

_ People ain't always people no more, Sydney._

No. Sometimes they're dinner.


	7. Changed

When Dad and I rejoin the group, they greet us by letting us get good looks down the barrels of their guns. Exactly what I would expect. Still kind of unnerving.

Dad holds up his arms, the string of squirrels gently _thwapping _against his side. "We surrender."

Everyone relaxes, the guns go down, we're welcomed back. Dad goes straight to Rick, at the front of the group, and I hear them whispering, but I don't catch what they say. I can imagine. _No tracks. But still . . ._

I go to Carl, a few paces behind his Dad. He gives me his smile, so rare once and now not so rare but still precious, but I wipe it off his face, have to. Well, I actually don't think about it. "I need to talk to you."

His brow furrows. His hand falls to his holster, subconsciously, I think. His voice goes a little deeper, too. "About what? Is something wrong?"

"I'll tell you later." We're in a group, and things get overheard in groups. If Dad didn't want me to know, chances are he doesn't want the others to know. I have to tell Carl, of course, but I won't tell the others. That would be going too far.

Carl stares at me, eyebrows still close together, and I can see all of the awful things I could potentially tell him circling through his mind, pushing him closer and closer to the cliff you fall off when you get really scared. So I grab his hand mid-step and squeeze. "It's nothing to worry too much about," I say. Sort-of lie. "Just something. Worth knowing."

He squeezes back, but I _have_ made him worry. Damn . . . I should have waited to talk to him later. _Change the subject, Sydney._ "Got lots of squirrels. Shot one more than my dad, even. So we get to eat more than crackers tonight."

He absentmindedly digs into his pocket. "And pecans. Here." He offers me a handful, and I take a couple and pop them into my mouth. I've never been crazy about pecans, but you take what you can get.

There's a quiet whistle ahead of us, from Rick. He gestures at us, me and Carl and the whole group. "Keep close."

So Carl and I pick up the pace, tighten up to Dad and Rick, but no, just Dad. Rick, he goes back into the group. My eyes follow him to Abraham, who I hear say, "Ready to get some concrete under your feet?"

After a moment, Rick answers with, "I think it's time."

My head flies forward again. My pulse gets stronger and faster, I feel it in my throat. So Rick's in? He's up for DC?

Abraham says that's music to his ears and then something about the first road we come to, going north on it, finding a vehicle. He asks Rick if it sounds good. Rick says it sounds good.

Do I think it sounds good?

Leaving Georgia. The idea is hard to get my head around, because when I think dead people walking, I think Georgia. Just Georgia, this little slice of the world, maybe all the world that's left, hell, how would I know different? And God, after all this time, two straight years surviving just here, here in this state that we've been all around and through and that we _know_ . . . the prison is here, and Hershel's farm. Both of my houses. My grandparents' house. And I know if we do leave, take that long road, we might never come back.

But then again, everything I'm thinking about leaving behind is already, for all intents and purposes, gone. Except from inside of me. And I can take anything anywhere, if that's what we're talking about. The stuff inside.

DC.

I side-look at Carl to find him side-looking at me. He heard.

Oh, yes, we'll have a lot to talk about tonight.

But not now. No, he agrees with me on the not-talking-in-groups thing. He just clears his throat and switches the bag he's carrying from one arm to the other. It looks kind of heavy.

I step over a log. "Want me to take it?"

"No, I'm good."

I bite my cheek, move my lips around, play with the zipper on this coat I'm wearing, and ask, "Want your jacket back?" even though I can predict his answer.

"No."

Something about this, how he's acting, it pulls a smile out of me. But I yank it back in, lift my chin, toss the end of my ponytail over my shoulder. "You don't have to be like that, you know."

"Be like what?"

"All . . ." I know there's a word for it. Owen would know, reader that he is. "_Chivalrous_. You can be a good boyfriend without . . . you know, giving me your jacket, and . . . like, opening doors for me, and pulling out my chair . . . all that stuff. You don't need to do it."

"Syd, that's what I'm supposed to do."

"Well, maybe I don't want you to do what you're _supposed _to do. Maybe I want you to do what you _want _to do."

"Fine. I _want _to give you my jacket. And do all that other stuff."

"Why?"

After a couple of seconds, he says, "Because you deserve it."

And out comes my smile again. I duck my head, but I can't help it, it's there to stay. I have a floating feeling in my chest that only Carl, at his sweetest, can put there. I can't _not_ feel good when that's there, that floating. "You've changed since I've been gone," I say, because he has. I wasn't planning on mentioning it, at least not until I got a sense of just how much change had taken place. But it's just so true. Nothing major, he's still my Carl. But something's shifted. For the better, I think.

But when he says, "Yeah. I have," it's a shade too dark for the conversation I thought we were having, and whatever was floating in me sinks some. I'm looking at Carl full-on, trying to decide whether or not to push for more, when we hear the screaming.

"Help! _Help, _anybody –"

The source of those screams is close, but out of sight.Dad pulls to a stop, so do Carl and I, Carl twists back to find his dad while I look from mine to the patch of woods where I think the cries come from. They're not far off, like I said, and we could there fast. But . . .

_But it could be a trap. But it could be a herd too big for us to fight. But it could be a bad person who we might save now and get killed by later._

Rick's here, hand up, telling everyone behind him to wait, but my boyfriend, in all of his nobility, whisper-yells, "Dad, c'mon!"

Rick stares down at him and I see the options clash inside his head. But he knows the risks. He knows the risks, and here's Carl, and there's Judith –

_"Come on." _Carl's teeth are gritted, his gun and muscles ready.

The screams keep coming, and they eat at me, they do, but I just – I don't –

Rick, we can't, can we?

Rick glances at Dad, but Carl says one final _Come on! _and that seems to decide it. Rick takes the first step and then we're all running, me next to Carl, half of me wanting to hit him and half of me wanting to brush back his hair and press my face into his neck.

He has changed. But he's still too damn good.

Our whole group, we race through the woods like a herd of deer, leaping over logs and ducking under branches, staying close, tight-knit, like always, and we get closer and closer to the screaming, and I can tell that it's a man's.

_"Help! Help!"_

And oh, he's desperate.

The shrieking pleads lead us to a giant rock, a boulder. Walkers dance around it, their arms stretched up towards the kicking feet of a black man in a black suit, who's on his back and trying to keep his grip on top of the rock, but I guess it's harder than it looks.

"_Help! Oh, please, help me!"_

Carl's the first one to shoot a walker. We don't have any silencers – thanks, Joe, Terminus – so with the yells and the gunshots combined, we'll have to get out of this place fast after all of this is cleaned up. There are only five or six walkers here now. We spread out without discussion, my group. I raise my bow and shoot one, the first walker I've shot since before Terminus, and it crashes back against the rock and slumps and falls, smearing blood on the stone. Rick and Michonne come straight up to their walkers, on either side of me, and bash their heads against the boulder, Michonne with the butt of a rifle and Rick, I think, with just his hands. Carol stabs one, and here Dad comes, stepping around a tree and putting an arrow – a bolt, they're actually called bolts, Joe told me that – through the last walker's head. Then there's the after-fight quiet.

Except for deep breathing, most of it coming from the man up on the rock.

I step on the skull of the walker I put down and yank out my arrow, like King Arthur and the sword and the stone. I wipe the gore on the walker's torn shirt. The used-to-be-man is rotted pretty badly, but he still has a gold band around his finger. I wonder if it still counts. _Till death do you part_, and all that.

I step back.

Rick shouts for Glenn, hanging back with Maggie and Sasha and Bob, to keep watch, and then he peers up at the man on the rock. I do the same, having to move back a little farther to get much of a look. The man stretches out his neck, looks down at what we've done, wonders if it's safe, seems to be leaning towards staying on top of the rock for forever.

But Rick says, "Come on down."

The stranger's face is dripping sweat, caught in a struggle between expressions of relief and terror. But he inches towards the edge of the rock. That's when I notice the little rectangle of white underneath his chin.

I'll be damned. He's a priest.

Kind of clumsily, the priest jumps down from the blood-drenched rock, stumbles, and then just gazes dumbly around at the bodies and at the rest of us. He might be drunk. Can priests get drunk?

"You okay?" Rick asks after a beat of silence.

The priest holds up a finger and then whirls and pukes.

Rick looks up, Carl turns away, but I just drop my eyes to the ground and wait for the man to finish. I'm not too bothered by vomit anymore.

After the priest has wiped his mouth, he looks up at us, watery-eyed. "Sorry," he mutters before pushing himself upright. He takes a big sniff and does a double-take of his surroundings. Of us. His eyes get a little more alert, and they go back to Rick. "Yes," he answers, late. "Thank you." His breathing is still all shaky, but he straightens out his jacket. I've never had much to do with priests – my mother and her parents were Baptists – but as far as I can tell, he has the whole – uniform? – on. In the middle of the end of the world. That's weird. Maybe wrong.

Or maybe I'm just paranoid.

"I'm Gabriel," the priest says. Gabriel. He was the angel who came to tell Mary she was pregnant, I think. All the paintings and Christmas decorations of angels show them as pretty people, usually women, with wings and smiles, but my mother told me once that the Bible actually says angels are fierce warrior types, who can be pretty vicious.

Rick skips the pleasantries. No introductions, not yet. "Do you have any weapons on you?"

Gabriel gives a nervous little laugh and looks over to Michonne, leaning on the boulder to his right. She lifts her eyebrows and waits for him to answer. He shudders some – adrenaline is not kind to this man – and says, "Do I look like I would have any weapons?"

From behind us, Abraham's stone-hard drawl. "We don't give two short-and-curlies what it looks like."

I really wish people who remind me of Merle would stop coming into my life.

Gabriel swallows again, gives a breath that's kind of a gasp, and says – to the whole group, I guess, because he's speaking louder – "I have no weapons of any kind. The word of God is the only protection I need."

I sigh.

"Sure didn't look like it," Dad says.

Gabriel grins at him in a way I don't like. He's jumpy as hell, this priest in the woods. Yeah, he just nearly got ripped apart by walkers, but who hasn't been there? And these days, who doesn't carry weapons around – _real _weapons, not some words from an ancient book? "I called for help," he informs Dad, still wearing that grin. "Help came."

Hm. Too bad it didn't come for Hershel, or Beth, or Andrea, or – Merle. I remember that tiny red copy of the New Testament I found in his bedside table at Woodbury. Wonder if he called for help. Probably not. Planning to die and all . . .

"Do you, uh . . ." Gabriel shifts, talks straight to Rick, ". . . have any food?" Nervous smile. He really needs to lose that, it's spreading his anxiety to me. I nock an arrow as Gabriel gestures to his mess of vomit and says, "Whatever I had left it's – it's just hit the ground . . ."

And out comes Carl's hand. "We've got some pecans."

I stare at him as the Father takes the offering. "Thank you," he says graciously, and Carl nods just as graciously. Manners all around.

I check my dad's face. It is not a trusting face. Good. Our instincts line up. That means something.

There's a gurgling sound from behind me that makes my hair stand on end. Judith, in Tyreese's arms, her pale baby face a sharp contrast against his dark skin. Judith. Judy. Sweet, innocent, and completely vulnerable to the world – and the people, the strangers – around her.

"That's a beautiful child," Gabriel says, and I hear every body behind me and next to me shift, yes, leaves crackle, air is sucked into lungs, weapons are readjusted. In my case, I go just a little back and just a little to my left, to be that much closer to Judith. I've latched my trigger onto my bowstring at this point.

Paranoid. Yes, that's me, Miss Paranoid. But I'm still alive.

No one replies to Gabriel's compliment to Judith, not Rick, not Carl – no one. I can't say exactly why. I only know that I don't like a man I don't know, a shifty man, so much as looking at her. I guess none of us do.

I think Gabriel gets that, at least. He bows his head, wipes his brow, lifts his eyes to Rick. Gentle. No threat here, don't be silly. "Do you have a camp?"

"No." Not so gentle. "Do you?"

"I have a church."

"Hold your hands above your head."

Gabriel's eyes go wide, but he does as Rick ordered, hands trembling all the way up. Rick goes through the usual police pat-down thing. And he asks the usual questions. The ones I used to hear in my sleep. Hearing them now is like when Dad hums his special tune to me late at night, because there's always a long time in between those special nights he does that, and I know it's familiar but it's also strange, and a part of me has to relearn it again.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

Nervous chuckle. "Ah-ha . . . Not any, actually . . ."

"Turn around." Rick helps him here, half-pushing him. No, Rick's not crazy about this guy, either. And if Dad, Rick, and me all feel like something's not square, we're probably right. We're good about stuff like that.

A few _crunch_ _crunch_ sounds next to me, and then a shadow across my boots. Owen. I check him out, as subtly as I can. He watches the scene between Rick and Gabriel with eyes that are either half-shut or narrowed. There's a difference, but with him, right now, I can't tell which one it is.

"How many people have you killed?"

"N – None." Gabriel seems shocked we would even ask.

I've never heard someone answer _None_ before.

Rick finishes the pat-down and steps back, the priest turns, and I don't have to see Rick's face to know it's not a nice face. His voice makes that plenty clear when he asks the final question, the most important one. "Why?"

The priest gives a hundred little shakes of his head, and answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world, eyebrows pulled together and everything. "Because the Lord abhors violence."

And no. No way. It's too much. No weapons? Never killed a walker, never killed a person? Oh, right, because _God_ is enough. Because _God_ said don't kill thy neighbor, or whatever the hell they taught me in Sunday school –

_Sorry, Nana._

That voice is tiny and young and I push it down from my heart to my stomach and gulp hard so it stays there, buried. That voice does not belong here. Maybe it doesn't belong anywhere anymore.

And Rick, Rick moves closer to the priest. He was already pretty close to begin with, so the priest leans back some, and I see that fear, the fear any sane person feels when Rick Grimes appears less than happy with them.

"What have you done?" Rick asks in his lowest, raspiest voice.

The priest just stares. Confused. Or pretending to be.

"We've all done something," Rick says, still so quiet, and I look down at my hands and the bow they hold. Carl's shoulder grazes against mine. On my other side, Owen gives a single, low chuckle.

Finally, Gabriel replies, "I'm a sinner. I sin almost every day."

Almost.

"But those sins, I confess them to God . . . not strangers." Cue a tight, apologetic smile.

I don't like him.

My money's on Rick grilling him further, but before he can, a new voice joins the conversation. LC's. Her words, blended with all this talk of church and God and _What have you done?_ makes me flinch. "You said you had a church?"

Gabriel looks over Rick's shoulder, I guess at her, and nods. And I know we're going to that church. It's shelter. And I know I should be grateful. Because, again – shelter. Assuming the priest is telling the truth. And even if he is . . . I still don't like him. And I hate churches.

. . . . .

On the way there, Gabriel explains that he mostly keeps to himself. He says people are as dangerous as the dead, don't we agree? My dad says no, they're worse, and that might have scared me once, but now it's so true that I barely even notice that it's kind of sad.

Gabriel says he hasn't been past the stream near his church more than a few times since the turn and that today he went farther than he ever had before.

Then he gets stupid.

He says, casual as you like, "Or maybe I'm lying . . . Maybe I'm lying about everything and there's no church ahead at all. Maybe I'm leading you into a trap so I can steal all your squirrels . . ." Then he laughs in a dry way, but when none of us respond, no laughs or comments or anything, he turns and sees our blank – in some cases, worse than blank – faces. My dad circles around to one side of him while Rick presses in on him from the front. Stares from all around. Glares. Gabriel looks from Rick to Dad and then at some of the rest of us, at me, and finally he says, backing down the trail he has us on, "Members of my flock often told me that my sense of humor leaves much to be desired."

"Yeah, it does," Dad assures him, close to growling.

Gabriel backs away some more, runs into a tree branch, and then leads on.

On and on. Carl carries Judith, I walk a little ahead, in between them and the priest. On and on a little more, until we break into a clearing with a little white building at its center. Weeds grow around it, though why I notice that, I don't know, since weeds grow around pretty much everything. A steeple rises up into the sky . . . into the heavens. As steeples do.

We head for the church, passing some lingering, scattered trees. A wooden fence stretches in front of the building – can't tell, from here, where it ends. A sign hangs from a tree above the fence but it's facing away from us, so I can't read it.

The front steps, painted white but worn and chipped, lead up to a pair of heavy wooden doors. As Gabriel reaches those doors and pulls a key from his jacket, Rick says, "Hold up." He jogs up the few steps and holds out his palm, staring the Father down. "We'll take a look around first." I see his eyes squint a little, his head cocks a bit. _You understand, right? _"We just wanna hold onto our squirrels."

It's a half-joke, half-threat.

No. It's a threat very, very thinly disguised as a joke.

Gabriel gives him the keys.

Rick kicks one of the doors open and heads in, rifle up and ready. Michonne, Dad, Carol, LC, and Glenn all file in after him. They all know what to do. Every one of us is an expert at sweeps now. I watch them disappear into the shadows from my place at the bottom step and think about how strange it is to see Michonne without her sword.

I also think about how I hate them being out of my sight, even for just a couple of minutes. If there's one thing I've learned this year, it's that being temporarily separated can turn into I'll-never-see-you-again.

Or, there's a lesson that might be embedded even deeper now: Death doesn't always take. I don't mean in the walker way. I mean how when people you've written off, who you never saw the body of but who you know – think you know – aren't coming back, come back. That can be wonderful. It can also be, well, horrifying.

"Rosita, Eugene, Tara, Bob. Let's check around back." Abraham looks at Gabriel. "If that's good with you, Father."

I get the sense Abraham doesn't give two shits whether or not it's good with the Father.

"Of course," says Gabriel, still so kind, so welcoming.

Maybe he really has never killed a walker, or a person. Maybe he's as clean as he claims, and that's why he's acting so naïve, so weak. Because he truly is.

Or maybe he's lying. He said that himself, after all. _Or maybe I'm lying . . . Maybe I'm lying about everything . . ._

So, the Father, Carl and Judith, Maggie, Sasha, Tyreese, Owen, and me are all left out here, standing before the church doors like we're waiting for Sunday service to start. Carl's now lugging around both the baby and the bag, so I shoulder my bow – I can put down Judith and get it back in my hands in two seconds, if I need to, I know I can – and take her from him. He doesn't resist. "Hey, pretty girl," I murmur as she comes into my arms. She gets a grip on some wayward strands of my hair and tugs. I let her, gazing up at the church, so different from the one my mother used to take me to – that was a huge brick building with an asphalt parking lot and a sanctuary so big the preacher had to speak into a microphone – but not so different at all from another church. The last church I was in.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Carl asks, quietly. Just a him-and-me talk. My favorite.

The bell that rang on a timer. The cross front and center of the chapel, with a carving of Jesus nailed there, suffering for our sins. I wonder how the pain of dying from crucifixion for a few hours compares to the pain of spending two years in a world where the dead walk around eating people.

I look at Carl, meet his eyes, that's all the answer he needs. Then I rest my cheek on Judith's head, and I say, "She's gotten so big."

"I know." He takes her hand, bounces it up and down, smiles at her the way a good big brother smiles at his little sister. It's the same way Tyreese smiles at Sasha sometimes.

I sway back and forth, twisting my body, so one second I'm looking at the doors to the church and the next I'm looking at the group we're left with. Maggie, Tyreese, and Sasha are talking, standing close together, Maggie and Tyreese smiling some, her playing with her hands, while Sasha only half-smiles every now and then and keeps two ready hands on her rifle, eyes travelling between the doors and the Father.

And then there's Owen, leaning against the fence, alone. He's looking up at the steeple and rolling something between his fingers. His lighter.

Carl and me, we're far enough away from them all for a quick, private conversation. But what I wanted to tell Carl about the Terminus people can wait now, has to. Priorities can change pretty fast.

"Hey," I say softly, "What you did back in the woods, when we heard Gabriel screaming?" I shake my head, bouncing Judith. "I – I wish you wouldn't do stuff like that."

He doesn't understand right away. When he does, it makes him frown, puts creases in his forehead. "You mean help people?"

"No, not – not necessarily. Helping people is good. I'm all about it. But we didn't know what we were getting into. What we were up against."

He grunt-sighs, looks away to think for just a few seconds, and then his eyes come back to me, plunge in. He shakes his head a little. "Would you rather have ignored him?"

"No. I don't –" Now I sigh, and it's a quick sigh, the kind that seems desperate to get away so it doesn't go down with you. "I just think . . . we have to take care of our group before anything and anyone else. That's what we've always done."

"No, Sydney," he says, "that's what we always did before Woodbury. Before my dad let all the people from there in. Do you remember how things were before that?"

I look into my favorite blue eyes and wonder what he's asking me to remember. How Rick killed two prisoners we found at the prison and then exiled two more, Oscar and Axel – both now dead – letting them in our group only after they helped us, saved our lives? How Rick wanted to turn away Michonne? Merle? How Rick nearly gave Michonne up to the Governor?

Or how Carl shot down that boy in the woods who was giving up his weapon?

That's not something I want to remember. That's a Carl so, so different from who my Carl is now. But maybe that's my Carl's, _this_ Carl's point. Maybe he wants me to think about how he's changed and how he's better for it, how we're all better for it, and how helping people is part of keeping this changed version of him alive and strong. The changed version of all of us. We are all changed, right? From who we were back then?

Or maybe I'm overthinking this.

"I remember," I murmur. "And I liked it better the way it got after Woodbury. You know that." Before the sickness and the attack by the Governor, and ignoring the presence of LC and my self-loathing and depression and the cutting and burning. But he knows what I mean. "But there have to be limits, Carl."

As I say this, Abraham and his three recruits come back around the church, from the side opposite the one they disappeared behind. I watch them head for Gabriel, hear Abraham say something I can't make out, but then I return my eyes to Carl, because he hasn't replied, and I need to make sure he understands me completely here. He's looked away, so I move closer to him and wait until he'll look at me. When he does, I know he's not angry. He's just . . . God, I don't even know, and I hate that. Maybe he's frustrated. I'll go with that. I tell him, softly, "You have to put _you_ first. And us."

When I say _us, _I mean the whole group, but as it leaves my lips I realize that it could just as easily be interpreted as the Carl-and-me us, and I don't know which one he's talking about when he answers, "I still _do _put us first. Always. But –"

I don't get to hear what he was going to say or what _us _he thought I meant, because a whistle comes from inside the church. Another one of Rick's, signaling that the sweep's over, everybody return to base. Soon after, he emerges, and Father Gabriel steps up to take back his keys. "I spent a month here without stepping out the front door," he says as Ricks drops the flash of silver into his palm. "If you found someone inside . . . well, it would have been surprising."

_Stop smiling like that, Father. I'm serious._

Michonne and Glenn and Carol and LC spill back out, all safe and sound, like I guess the church must be, and as they come down the steps, Carl says, "Thanks for this." He's talking, of course, to Father Gabriel. Who nods. And smiles.

"I found a short bus out back," Abraham tells Rick as the priest from the woods with the smile retreats into his church. "It don't run, but I bet we could fix that in less than a day or two. The Father here says he doesn't want it."

Rick reaches out and strokes Judith's head and just listens.

"Looks like we've found ourselves some transport," Abraham continues, prodding Rick for an answer, I think.

But Rick doesn't answer, just keeps petting Judith's head. She releases my hair to reach for his hand.

Abraham stares at Rick. "You understand what's at stake here, right?"

"Yes, I do." The father's taken hold of his daughter's hand and is shaking it a little, exactly like Carl did two minutes ago. Judith babbles. I think, even after all the time she spent away from them, she still knows the people who love her most.

Michonne breaks into the conversation, speaking to Abraham, pointedly. "Now that we can take a breath –"

"We take a breath, we slow down," he interrupts, which you should never do with Michonne. "Shit inevitably goes down."

"We need _supplies_." She stretches out the word, showing all of her teeth in the process. "No matter what we do next."

"That's right." Rick guides Judith's hand to mine and then takes the steps up to the church doors. "Water, food, ammunition . . ." Into the church he goes, planning.

My dad, meanwhile, has been standing on the top step all this time. He watches Rick go in and then looks at Abraham coolly. "Short bus ain't goin' nowhere." He walks through the doorway. "We'll bring ya back some baked beans."

I climb to the top step of the church with Carl by my side and Judith in my arms. It's a nice arrangement. Except for the church part. And the priest part. And the Carl running off to help strangers part.

Thing is, I love that last part, when it comes down to it. It just also scares the hell out me.


	8. Prodigy

It's a pretty church.

Stained glass windows, up at the front, behind the pulpit. I've always liked stained glass. How it can turn a room into a rainbow. The pulpit, it's behind this railing sort of thing, which is about three feet tall. More of a fence, I guess. It's a rectangle missing a side, the side farthest from the entrance, and it doesn't close the pulpit off or anything. It's like a weird barrier. I've never seen something like that in a church.

Behind this weird barrier-fence-railing thing, there's the typical church podium, just ready for its priest to step up to it and praise God. Behind that, a table with a cross and candles. And behind _that_, on the floor under the stained glass windows, a good collection of opened cans, their lids stuck out, just begging for a finger to slice. Gabriel told us that his church had a canned food drive right around the time of the turn. Lucky.

There's a door on either side of the pulpit. One leads to the priest's office, the other to a spare room – probably used for Sunday School, or one of those meetings where the wives all get together and talk about how to improve things in the community, in between gossiping about its members. My Nana used to be one of those wives.

And then there are pews, of course. Rows and rows across a wooden floor. Empty, destined to wait forever for people long dead to come in and sit and worship the Lord. Their savior.

Right now, in the very back of the church, Carl is using one of these pews to change Judith. And I'm up here, to the right of the pulpit.

The church has a piano.

I slide my index finger across the keys, my touch light enough to not draw out a sound from this machine built to make them. I lift my finger and examine the dust ball clinging to it, and I rub my thumb against it until the ball crumbles into pieces and those pieces float to the floor. The piano keys now have a stripe slicing through the grime. Like I poured some water onto very dry dirt.

"Wanna play me somethin'?"

I go still, but he can't know. He's joking.

"Hear you're pretty good."

No, he's not joking. He does know. Son of a bitch, he knows. The past six, seven years of my life I've hidden this part of me from him, without any problems, and now. He. Knows.

"LC," is all I say. He doesn't need to confirm it. I turn around and face him, my face blank. Yes, I'm boiling inside, and I feel totally, completely exposed and I kind of want to go find a corner and hide under whatever I can, but no one can do that now. Especially not me. That was me six months ago. Not me today.

Dad's hand is resting on the end post of the fence-barrier, but it doesn't look like he's actually putting any weight on it. "Why'd you hide it from me for so long?" he asks.

I do my best to study him. I can't pick up how he feels, exactly. Confused, sure, that's easy enough to guess just because he asked the question. But is he . . . hurt? He has to be. He shouldn't be, but he has to be.

I kind of shrug. "You hated the recitals." I almost touch another one of the piano keys, but catch myself in time and just keep rubbing my index finger and thumb together, getting the last of the dust off.

"Only ever went to one," Dad says.

"And you hated it. And all the others were pretty much the same."

"You still coulda told me you played, at least." He comes to me. He lowers himself onto the piano bench and takes the crossbow from his back, sets it on the floor. "I don't get why you didn't."

This means I'm going to have to talk.

I sit next to him on the bench, leaving a few inches between us. Carl's still with Judith in the back pew. Tyreese has come over to help. When Rick left to get supplies – there was one place Gabriel said he hadn't cleaned out yet because of too many walkers, so Rick took him and LC, Michonne, Bob, and Sasha to go clear it and find what they can – Tyreese told him he would always be here for Judith. I think he must have bonded with her a lot, and I have no complaints. The more protection she has, the better.

The piano. Dad wants to know about the piano. About me and the piano.

But it's not just me and the piano. It's never been just me and the piano. _She _was always there too.

"Before the turn . . ." I begin, looking at all the empty pews, imagining what they would look like full, "It was just a completely separate thing from you. Piano. There was . . . Mom. And then there was you. On this side . . ." I flip my left hand out. "Piano. And . . . nice dresses. Dinners at Nana and Papaw's. Her boyfriends. My friends. Church. And on _this _side . . ." Now my right hand pops up. "A .22. Squirrels. Deer. Dirty boots, heavy coats, tents, campfires." And Merle.

Dad shifts. He's hunched over, elbows pressed into knees. "We did stuff other'n hunt, Syd."

"I know." He's right. We would watch movies until it was way, _way _past my bedtime. Eat cheap pizza and ice cream. He took me to the drive-in once. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. "But even if we hadn't done different stuff, Dad – I love hunting. I've always loved it."

And when I think back to how it used to be, on Dad's weekends – it's _hunting. _All that other stuff, that _good _stuff – it's just studs in the jacket.

"But how I was with you, and the things we did . . ." I can't quite grasp what I want to say, so I just give up and let what's on my tongue tumble out as it will. "It was a completely different side of me than the side of me that came out when I was at home – I mean, with – with my mother."

"You were the same person," Dad says. "There ain't no splittin' you into two halves."

"I guess not. But whoever I was then, it's not who I am now." I crack my knuckles, and the piano, with all its magic, gently pulls my head around to look over it again. It's a nice piano. But the one we had at my old house, that one had belonged to Poppy, my mother's grandfather. I loved that piano. "And this thing just looks strange to me," I whisper.

Dad turns, too, but to me, not the piano. "Bet if you tried . . ."

Billy Joel, Beethoven, everyone and everything in between. It all came into our house, into my room, and echoed where it shouldn't have echoed and just _lived_, and made every inch warmer, brighter, even when the air smelled like alcohol – hell, especially when.

Truth is, if Dad is _hunting_, my mother is _piano_. And all that other stuff, dinners, friends – more studs. _Piano_. Sing us a song, you're the piano man . . . _That_ is my mother.

So how can I let it even be a _part _of me again?

"I just . . . I can't play right now, Dad. It's not in me."

He sighs, and I realize – well, it's confirmed for me – that he wasn't just curious. He really wanted to hear me. That sends guilt coursing through me, but I check my face again to make sure it's as blank as ever when Dad stands. "Alright," he says. "But don't let me die never havin' heard my piano prodigy daughter play."

"I'm not a prodigy. And don't die."

He sort-of chuckles. It's the kind that really only has the smallest bit of a laugh. Not even worth it. Kind of makes me feel worse, actually. But Dad picks up his crossbow, slings it back over his shoulder. "Got a job for ya anyway."

And here he is, all-business Dad, back-in-action.

"Carol and me're goin' to that stream Father Gabe was talkin' 'bout. Gonna get some water. He's got some jugs he fills up, plenty of 'em. We could use a couple extra sets of hands."

I get up. My bow's never left my shoulder, but I hook my fingers onto it. That comforts me. "I'm in. You want Carl, too?"

"Nah. He'll wanna stay with Judith. Abraham and his two are out back, workin' on the bus, and Maggie and Glenn and that, uh, Tara girl are lookin' through a phonebook, seein' if there's any place nearby worth checkin' out. That leaves us with –"

But I already know who it leaves us with. "Owen."

Dad gives something between a shrug and a nod. Like, _He's the best we got. _"Know where he is?"

I point my chin at the door on the pulpit's left side. "Gabriel's office, I think."

"What's he doin' in there?"

"Tryin' to find a book, probably. Or cigarettes. Can priests smoke?"

"'Bout as well as anybody, I'd say." He's heading for the door already. "I'll talk to him."

I start to go after him. "Want me to do it?"

"No, I got it." He passes through the open doorway, leaves my sight. Just him and Owen in there.

I could eavesdrop. Like, really easily. Just take seven or so steps across the pulpit, lean against the wall by the door, kid stuff – kid stuff that works.

But why should I care what my dad says to Owen? And how interesting could it be – he'll just ask him. Owen will say yes, I'm sure. Well, almost sure.

Hell, I don't know.

I know I'd rather have him with me than leave him with Carl and Judith.

Carl has Judith in his arms in the back pew now, and she seems to be fully clothed. Safe for me, in other words. So I leave the piano. The air seems to freshen as I move away from it. I walk up the aisle – my footsteps echo, which bugs me – and swing into the row. "Hey. All good?"

"Yeah." Carl attempts an annoyed expression. "You are going to have to learn how to change a diaper eventually, you know."

"Why?" I sit, curling my legs underneath me. Tyreese is gone, probably doing a perimeter check. "You goin' somewhere?"

Carl cocks his head to the side, half-smiles. _Get real._

I grin. The guilt, and the more-bitter-than-sweet memories, they cower. I brush my hand over Judith's and then touch Carl's shoulder. I play with his hair, unsticking it from his neck and shirt. "Speaking of going somewhere," I begin, "Dad and me, and Carol and Owen – if Owen's up for it – we're gonna head down to the stream. Get some water."

Carl doesn't answer right away. "I can't go with you," he eventually says. "I promised Dad I'd stay here with Judith."

"And you _should_ stay here with her. I'll be back soon."

His head falls back, his hat dutifully remaining in place. I keep on with his hair, twisting it, smoothing it. "Is it just me," he says, "or is it _you_ leaving _me_ ninety percent of the time?"

"You make a better housewife than I do."

His head rolls around and his eyes land on me, unamused.

"I'll be careful," I promise. "It's a low-risk thing, and you know it. You just . . . keep an eye out here."

"Yeah, my dad already gave me the speech."

I wrap my arm all the way around his neck. "I love you," I say into his ear. I figure that'll make everything okay, for a little while, at least.

He twists so we're face-to-face, and I know I'm right. "You, too."

We kiss. And we kiss a little more. One of our mouths decides to open and then the other one's mouth goes along with it, and I reach to find his face, and that's when I hear someone drawl, "Careful, kids, you're in the House of the Lord."

I break from Carl, drop my hand, make it meet the other in my lap. Carl's face burns red, but knowing him, he's just as irritated as he is embarrassed. Maybe more. I'm about the same way, and I rub my forearm over my hot face as Owen strides closer to us, smirking. He tosses something big and white into my lap. I snap onto it, but it's just an empty jug. Owen lifts his arms halfway and widens his eyes. "What would Jesus think?"

I grip the jug's handle too hard and get to my feet. My glare is answered by Owen's grin, and now Dad's here. He was behind Owen, not far . . . How much did he see? Probably more than he or I would have wanted him to.

I swallow. "Guess this means you're coming?" I say to Owen, flatly.

"Got nothin' better to do." He winks at Carl and heads for the door. "Let's roll . . ." He looks back, points at my dad without stopping. "Or is that your line? You seem like the kinda guy who'd say somethin' like that . . ."

Then he's out the door, and if my dad's fazed – by Owen, or by my boyfriend and me – he doesn't show it when he passes by our pew. Just gives us one of those unreadable looks he mastered a long time ago.

I grip the back of the pew as he leaves the church. To Carl I say, "I swear Owen's not a total jackass."

"Right."

"I said not a _total _jackass_._ He's definitely, I don't know – half of one."

"So," I hear a smile creeping into his tone, "Just an ass?"

I laugh. "Be nice."

"I'll be nice if he'll be nice."

"He's never been nice." But I know what Carl means. And I know what I worried about yesterday, walking alone with Owen. The good feelings Carl put in me are starting to fade, maybe because my brain knows I'm about to leave him and then I'll be on my own.

From outside, "Syd, c'mon!" My dad.

Well, not on my own, I guess. But Dad . . . God knows Dad and me aren't back in fighting shape.

I smooth back some flyaway hairs, escapees of my ponytail. No more fun time, no more flirting, no more kissing. It's time to be serious. "I know the priest went with your dad and the others, but he could have people of his own. Don't let your guard down."

Carl chuckles.

"What?"

He rubs his thumb over his sister's little fingers. "You just sounded like my dad. Like, scarily like him."

I nod at the floor. Makes sense. "He and I have some things in common. Like the way we both want you to stay alive." I squeeze his shoulder. The back of my hand brushes his cheek. "See you soon." I tap a finger under Judith's chin. "Bye, baby girl."

I go. I feel like I'm leaving behind some unsaid words, but . . . I think we both understand that this is just us. How we are, how we have to be. Sometimes we get to be together, and sometimes we have to be apart. It's always been that way, I guess, with grownups. It's just that now the stakes are a lot higher.

Once I'm out in the sunlight, I touch the rose hanging from my neck. It's cool, but it'll warm up. One thing it will never do, though, is grow. And for some reason – some irrational reason – that makes me sad.


	9. Six Years Old

_I try really hard not to cry, because I'm six years old and that means I'm a big girl and I'm not supposed to cry, and I'm Daddy's tough girl, too, so I'm really, really not supposed to cry. But I cry some anyway. And Mama can tell, even though I do my best to hide it. Mama can always tell. So she stops the car in the driveway and turns it off and turns in her seat and looks at me. It's dark but I can still kind of see her face because of the streetlights. She just looks for forever. "Honey, what's the matter?" she asks then, in her I'm-sorry-let-me-fix-it voice._

_ I rub my eyes like I'm just tired, the way Daddy rubs his eyes a lot, and I say, "Um, Daddy didn't like it."_

_ "Sydney, Daddy loved it."_

_ "No, he didn't," I say, and I mean it. He hated it. The whole thing. He looked really sad and it made me sad and I should never, never have gone tonight. Should never have got him to._

_ Mama sighs and holds my knee. "C'mon. Let's talk about it inside." _

_ So I unbuckle and get out of the car and follow Mama into the house. I'm in a blue dress. I don't like dresses. Daddy and Uncle Merle both say I look pretty in them but I can't go hunting in a dress, I can't work on a car in a dress, or do anything else really fun. No, that's a lie. I can play piano in a dress, I do play piano in a dress, but only in recitals, I guess, and even though this was my first recital I can tell that they aren't fun like playing at home or at Nana and Papaw's. Well, it's nice when people clap, yeah, I like that. I'm good at piano. _

_ But Daddy didn't like tonight._

_ Mama says I can shower in the morning and to just get into my pajamas, so I put on some soft pants and one of Daddy's shirts, and Mommy gets in her night dress and robe and she makes hot chocolate, a special treat, and we sit on the couch and we talk._

_ "Baby, Daddy thought you were wonderful tonight. He was so proud of you. He told you that."_

_ He did. I saw him right after I played and he picked me up and gave me a big hug and told me I was great, but he looked so tired and fidgety, really, when he thought I wasn't looking, and he didn't like it, I know it. I can tell when he doesn't like something, I'm smart, he tells me that nearly every time I see him._

_ "He hated it." I don't drink more than a quick sip of hot chocolate because I'm about to cry again and it's hard to drink stuff when you're about to cry._

_ "No, he did not."_

_ "I don't mean – I don't mean, I don't mean me playing. I mean, um, I mean the recital. He didn't like the, um, the . . ."_

_ "The atmosphere?" Mama says, really quiet._

_ "What?"_

_ "The atmosphere. It means what's going on around someone. The talk, the clothes, the people. Just the general feeling of a place."_

_ "No. He didn't like that." Daddy doesn't belong in a place full of people in nice clothes with sticky stuff in their hair. I mean, Daddy got dressed up tonight, and I thought he looked very handsome, but he didn't look like Daddy, though. Daddy's supposed to wear shirts without sleeves and not shave. That's just Daddy._

_ Mama plays with my hair. "Sydney, you're very smart."_

_ Yeah, Mama tells me that a lot too. I guess I must be, but I don't feel like it sometimes._

"_And you know your daddy. Probably because you're so much like him."_

_ Daddy tells me I'm so much like Mama, though, and it's all just confusing._

_ "And no, piano recitals . . . things like that, they're not something Daddy would usually want to go to. But doesn't it make you feel special that he does want to go to them just to see you?"_

_ "No, because he hated this one, and he'll hate them all!"_

_ "But he loves you. And you don't know –"_

_ "Yes, I do! Mama –" I'm crying now, big fat tears and all, and I put my hot chocolate on the coffee table and wipe my face because I'm not supposed to cry, I'm not supposed to cry, I'm my daddy's tough girl. "I don't, I don't want Daddy to feel bad, I don't want him to not like the atmosphere . . ."_

_ "Baby . . ."_

_ "He hated it . . ."_

_ "But he thought you were wonderful." My eyes are squeezed shut but Mama's arms come around me and hug tight. She smells good. She smells like Mama and she's soft and I go ahead and let myself cry, because she won't tell Daddy. "He thought you were wonderful," she whispers. "You were wonderful. We're both so, so proud of you, honey . . ."_

_ But I cry and cry, because Mama and Daddy might be proud of me, but Daddy still hated tonight, hated it hated it hated it. And I hate me, I hate me for wanting him to come in the first place. _


	10. You Are Not Safe

"They're grown-up talkin'."

Owen's whispering, but so are the trees on either side of this asphalt road, as well as the dead leaves covering it. So, I almost pretend that I didn't hear him, but change my mind. Maybe because I'm trying to get him to stay. Maybe because I want to chase him off.

I shift my newly-filled water jug from my right hand to my left. "Grown-up talkin', huh?"

"Mm-hmm . . ." Owen, weighted down with two full jugs of water, eyes my Dad and Carol – ten paces ahead of us – with a sparkle in his eye. Well, not a sparkle. But there's some amusement there. Or something. "Keepin' close enough to us that we're all still together, so if a corpse or two or ten happens to stumble out at us, we can take care of 'em as a group. But they're talkin' low, leanin' close to each other when they say somethin' . . ." His next step brings him closer to me, and he stage-whispers, "They have something on their minds that concerns neither of us. Something personal. More than likely something they think we're too young to hear about." He falls back away from me, eyebrows up, shoulders half-shrugged. "Maybe sex."

"Oh my – stop talking."

"What?" He gestures with one of his arms, sloshing the contents of the jug attached to it. "He's a man, she's a woman, options are limited, tension is high, blood is always, always pumping –"

"How much blood is gonna be pumping to your balls after I jam my knee into them?"

"Whoa-ho! Look who picked up a thing or two from our old pals. I think you might have just quoted Harley directly."

"No I . . ." But I probably did. Harley. The guy who knocked me out without a second thought after we spent weeks on the road together. Still, that betrayal didn't feel nearly as painful as how Carol just treated me down at the stream. No, Harley was nothing – Carol is Carol. "Just shut up," I mutter to Owen.

Dad and Carol walk on. They _are_ leaning in close to each other. They _are_ talking low. Owen's right. Grown-up talking. At least she'll talk to someone.

That makes me more angry than happy, and that's bad.

Owen sucks in some air through his teeth and then lets it all out in a dramatic rush. "Sorry."

I'll give him this – he's not afraid to apologize when he feels it's necessary. There's something I like about that.

"You just get so quiet sometimes," he says.

I give the jug back to my right hand. We're going up a hill, finding our way back to the trail that leads to the church. I don't mind the walk. I don't mind lugging around the water, either. Physical stuff like this, it helps me think. It's one of the reasons I miss the prison – it had my hay bale with my spray-paint target, waiting for me every morning, as steady as the sun. Best way I've ever found to clear my head.

Owen asks, "Somethin' happen?"

To get me so quiet, he means. God . . . I could tell him no, that it's just me. Wouldn't be a lie. I do just go quiet sometimes, like he said.

But . . .

At the stream, getting water, I told Carol, just between us, that I'd missed her. That it had been rough, not having her around for so long, because she's been there – been there for _me –_ ever since the turn –

And that's when she said my jug was full enough and to go keep an eye on Owen.

No warm response, no hug, no pat on the back. No smile. Barely any eye contact.

So I just walked away and kept an eye on Owen. And pulled out the film I keep inside of me that sometimes helps to cushion me from reality. It worked a little. Enough that I kind of went numb, which is better than feeling bad any day.

But it's hard to keep the film over me for long. It's starting to wear off now.

I've forgiven her for Karen and David. I haven't even brought it up. But we're back together – doesn't that mean something to her? Something special, I mean?

The film, the film, it's peeling away.

I need to distract myself and I need to not answer Owen, because anything that happens between me and Carol – or doesn't happen – that's between me and Carol.

"What'd my dad say to you to get you to come?" I blurt. It's a good a question as any.

"What makes you think I needed convincing?"

"It's not that you needed convincing. It's that you like to argue."

He grins. The leaves scratch over the street as we kick them, as the breeze stirs them. "He told me that if I'm gonna be part of y'all's group, I gotta pull my own weight. I told him I'm not sure I wanna be part of y'all's group, and he said that until I _am _sure, I'm part of the group whether I like it or not. So I best get off my ass and move . . . I'm kinda startin' to like your dad."

I don't say anything. Dad and Carol are still grown-up talking. I want to catch up, but I doubt they would like that. They're friends. They were apart for a long time. Maybe they need to make things good between them.

Although I'm friends with Carol and she and I were apart for a long time and I tried to make things good between us but –

"Things still tense between you two?"

How does he know about –

Dad. He means Dad.

Send my jug to my left hand. "We're fine."

"Hm. So, that's a yes."

_Ignore him. Let him think what he wants. _

_You can't ignore him. Any more than you can ignore Carol or Dad or Rick or LC – shit, there's a lot of shit to deal with._

"You gonna tell him about any of it?"

Stop talking, Owen.

"What happened while you guys were separated? With Len . . . with Rick?"

"None of that matters now." We've reached the top of the hill, but there's another one up ahead, steeper. "Len's dead. And Rick and I are good."

"The night Len died, you told me you weren't sure your dad looked for you. Talk to him about that? Or how about Romeo, you sharin' and carin' with him?"

"Why're you talkin' to me about this crap? Why do you even care?"

"Because secrets build up, kiddo. Wouldn't want you to –"

"Wouldn't want me to what?" I whip my head towards him. "Who are you to talk about keeping secrets?"

He doesn't break pace. He looks at me the way he used to look at his brother when Tyler was pleading for something. Like for him not to throw his new basketball on the roof.

"Why were you in juvie, Owen?" The question comes out easy, and I'm like him – I don't break pace. Just a nice walk on a crisp fall day, oh, by the way – why were you in prison?

"Why do _you_ even care?" he tosses back.

We start up the new hill, and now it's my turn to drift closer to him. I drop my voice to that same whisper he used before, and I say – I hiss – "Because I brought a criminal into my group, and I would like to know exactly what that means." I never take my eyes off him. I could trip, but I don't, and it's the right call to make, staring him down like this. That's what it would take with me. My mother was always very firm about this – make eye contact. Eye contact.

With Owen, it works.

"It means I was a thirteen-year-old kid who thought he was a badass and wasn't."

We walk in silence, but I keep on staring at the side of his head. Not eye contact, but close enough.

"I stole a car," he finally says, as flat as can be. "Took it for a joyride. Happy?"

No, I'm not.

"You told me that you've done worse things than what you did to get into juvie."

His arms fly out. The jugs swing in his hands. "Welcome to the apocalypse – where everything's trying to kill you and moral values are a luxury!"

I'm on a roll. Not one I like. My heart rate's up and my palms are sweaty, I have to switch the jug back to my right hand again and almost drop it. "We've all done something, that's what Rick told Gabriel." I said that too fast. Slow down, Sydney, easy. "It's true. So what did you do that makes you think you're any worse than the rest of us?"

His jaw's gone tight. He's grinding his teeth, I think. And he's looking straight ahead, but I don't think he's thinking about Dad and Carol anymore, or grown-up talk. Except, I think what we're doing here _is_ grown-up talk.

"Owen," I say right as we get on semi-flat ground again, and that's when he opens his mouth. But the words that come out aren't for me.

"Does it work?" he calls, and I look ahead and see a car. Dark green-blue, covered in dirt, parked or dead on the side of the road. And Carol's slamming the trunk right as we get up to it. Well, as Owen gets up to it. He picks up speed and reaches her well before I do. Dad's standing off a bit. I step up next to him.

"Well enough," Carol answers, and she looks Owen over before turning to Dad. "We'll leave it here as backup, in case things go south at the church." She bends to the ground and picks up both her water jugs. I'm the only one carrying just one. Could've carried another. Dad said no.

He nudges me now, Dad. "You good?"

I use my free hand to wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. "You don't have to ask me that every five minutes."

Silence.

"Sorry," I say.

He sighs – it's always been a special skill of mine, making him sigh like that, and it's nice to know that some things never change. "Let's just get back. Go on."

So I go on. No more grown-up talk separating Dad and Carol from me and Owen this time around. No, we walk single-file all the way back to the church. Single-file and quiet. It's not the comfortable kind of quiet. It's more the exhausted kind. Mental? Physical? More than likely both. I know that's what it is for just me, alone.

A lot of things are worse than stealing a car – if Owen's even telling the truth about that, and I'm not sure he is – but there aren't a lot of things worse than the things Owen _knows_ we've done. I told him about me killing the Governor, about – Rick. I told him about LC. Told him we've killed people, all of us.

So what has he done? What could he possibly have done to make him believe that he's worse?

_And brat? I know bad. You ain't it._

Are you, Owen?

It could just be in his head. He might be the same as all of us – just another good person who got in a bad situation and now has guilt riding him all day every day, because the better the person the guiltier they feel over the bad stuff they do. The _really_ bad stuff that they _have _to do.

Or he might be completely different from my group. From me . . . because I'm _not _bad. I'm not.

I think about that kid who threw my best friend's new basketball onto the roof. I think about how he walked away, stone-cold, while Tyler screamed after him. I never got that Owen. I don't get this one, either.

But I can't just let him be and hope for the best.

. . . . .

Back at the church, Dad's the first one through the door. "Gift of life!" he calls into the sanctuary, but just as I'm coming in after him, Carl's there. His expression stops me cold.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey . . ."

He clamps onto my hand as Carol and Owen pass us by. I don't really pay attention to any of them, because there's something really, really off with Carl, something that makes my stomach flip over, and I scan for Judith – "What's wrong?" – and I hear her then, crying from one of the little rooms. "Is Judith okay? Have the others gotten back, what –?"

"Everyone's fine," he promises, but he swallows and looks out the door. "Just . . . come with me. I need to show you something."

"What?"

"Just come, okay?"

I leave my water jug by the door and follow him out of the church and around it, counterclockwise. I want to take my bow from my shoulder, load up, but Carl doesn't have his gun out, and he didn't bring anyone out here but me, so this can't be an immediate threat. But it could still be a threat. Must be.

Just before we reach the corner of the church, where we could take a left and come up on the back of the place, see the cemetery and the bus and Abraham and his people – I can hear Rosita snapping at someone right now – Carl stops. He turns to me. He gives me a very solemn look.

Then he crouches down, moves aside some weeds, and stands back up with a small bunch of yellow flowers. And a grin.

Every muscle in me goes limp and then tightens right back up. I shove him as he begins to laugh. "You asshole!"

"C'mon, I had you!"

"Yeah, you did! I thought something was really wrong!"

"I'm sorry . . ." He takes a deep breath, trying to bite back his smile. He's not doing a very good job. "I'm sorry." He holds the flowers out. "I just wanted to surprise you."

"I . . ." I grimace. He scared me, and I want to be pissed off. But he's standing here with flowers, looking so damn cute in that stupid hat.

He wiggles the flowers. Lets his smile loose.

I snatch the bouquet and shake my head. "These are really pretty. I hate you. But they're really pretty." I sniff the flowers. They smell sweet but sharp – just like fall. Perfect fall flowers.

"You don't hate me."

"Uh-huh. You disgust me. I'm never going to forgive you."

"Never?"

"Never. Never, never, nev – what are you doing, you think that's going to help you?"

He's put his arms on either side of my head, and I'm against the wall, and his forehead is touching mine.

"Stop it." I don't move. "I'm mad at you."

"No, you're not."

"Don't tell me how I feel, you jerk."

"Tell me not to kiss you, and I won't."

"Mmm . . ."

"Just say not to kiss you. If you're so mad at me –" He reaches down and pokes at my ribs, making me jump, "just say not to kiss you."

I shove his hand away. "Do _not_ start that," I say with all the seriousness I can muster.

"Start what?" His other hand moves down to my ribcage, fingers going at it, and a giggle escapes me even as I try to squirm away.

"Stop it!" I lose the bouquet somewhere in my escape attempt. Lose my bow, too, even feel my quiver slip off my back, hear the arrows clatter out. I'm laughing and angry and in love now, but I still have to try to keep my voice low so the others – and the walkers – won't hear as I promise, "Now I'm definitely not letting you kiss me!"

"Alright, fine." He wraps his arms around my waist and falls to the ground, bringing me with him.

"Carl Grimes, I swear –"

"What? What're you gonna do?"

I nip one of his arms.

"Ow!" He loosens his grip, just enough for me to break free, flip onto my back, and scoot about a yard away from him.

"Ha!" I lean back on my elbows as he rubs his arm. I let my head hang as far to the side as it can go and widen my eyes. "Am I too much to handle, Grimes?"

He cocks his head at me, and then leaps. Mr. Competitive.

Next thing I know, he's straddling my waist, he's tickling my ribs, and I can't get up.

He's pinned me here.

I stop trying to fight him. I put my arms above my head, surrender. Air's hard to find. But it's just Carl. Stay calm, it's just –

"Carl, get off."

His fingers keep dancing over my ribs, but I barely feel them. All I feel is his weight pressing down on me, trapping me under him. "Why? Am I too much to handle?"

"Get off." Completely can't breathe now. Carl's grinning but it's not, it's not my Carl's grin, it's not my Carl, it's –

"I said _Get off!" _I snap my upper body up, like I'm a mousetrap, and ram my shoulder into Carl's chest, and then he's gone, and I don't know if it was because of what I said or because I'm just that strong, but he's off of me, that's all that matters, and my lungs fight again for air and I scramble away from my boyfriend and look, look at anything, and what I eventually settle on looking at is the flowers. The pretty flowers he picked for me.

I'm gasping.

"Syd?"

Carl's keeping his distance, but he's still on the ground, too. On his knees, leaning forward, but not close enough to touch me. I don't look right at him. Not yet.

"Did I hurt you?" He sounds broken, too.

Breathe. Where am I? I'm outside of a church. I'm with my family. Dad's inside, Carl's out here. I'm safe. I'm safe.

_You little bitch, you little bitch . . ._

I'm safe. Safe.

But I'm shaking so hard.

"Sydney, I – I was just messing around, I'm sorry – do you want – should I go get your dad?"

Safe.

_You little bitch._

"I'm okay . . ." I draw my legs into me, drop my head back, see the beautiful sky. "I'm okay . . ."

Wind blowing through the trees, dead leaves spiraling down, white clouds swirling above me. _God uses the clouds to paint, Sydney, _my Nana once told me.

I'm okay. I'm safe. Clouds, Carl, Dad. Bow. Arrows.

I look at Carl. He's terrified. He's not a teenager wanting to make out with his girlfriend. He's the scared little boy from the swamp. "I'm sorry . . ." he says one more time. "I didn't mean . . ."

I swallow. It hurts, my throat's gone so dry, and God, stop shaking, Sydney. "You didn't do anything wrong," I say. "It's okay."

"Syd . . ." He doesn't understand. I could get him to understand in a single sentence, one simple fast story, but I don't say it, so he just goes on not understanding. Goes on being confused and upset. "I would never . . . I would _never_ . . .hurt you. In any way. If that's what you were thinking . . ."

"I wasn't. I know you wouldn't." I take one more long, deep breath. I lift my hands to cup my face, then rake them through my hair, pull out my ponytail. I fluff all of my hair out, and it makes a nice shield for me. Completely useless, but comforting. Like hiding under covers from a monster in your room, back when monsters were all in your head and you sort of knew it but weren't totally sure. "I just . . . I don't like being, um . . . I don't like feeling – trapped. Like that. Anything like – that."

Anything like feeling helpless. Weak. At someone else's mercy. Violated.

"I know you don't. That was –" He heaves a sigh. "So stupid of me. I'm sorry."

"You don't – you don't have to be sorry." Smiles are easy to force. It's just shaping your face, like it's a puppet, not a part of you.

Pretty clouds, God making art. Pretty flowers from my boyfriend. That boyfriend's eyes, full of concern.

I'm loved. I'm okay. I'm safe.

"I really do like the flowers. And I'm really not mad at you, you know I'm not. And I really want you to kiss me now, okay?"

He stares, uncertain.

I hold out my hand, do my best to keep it steady. He takes it. He walks on his knees over to me, and it's me that kisses him, lightly. Then I tuck my head into his neck. He puts his arms around me, and I tense, but I inhale him, exhale him, inhale him again, and calm down. It's Carl. He's completely my Carl. And I'm safe. This is reality, this is _now_, and now is safe.

I stay there, curled into him, calm, until I hear him murmur, "Oh, no." And I pull away, immediately.

"What?" I'm not shaking anymore. Where's my bow? Close to the flowers, along with my quiver and my spilled arrows. I check Carl again, and his eyes are on the wall behind me, and then just on me. His flinch tells me he didn't think through saying anything, but it's too late. I twist around and search the wall.

It takes me a bit. The painted-white siding has seen better days, it has a thousand different chips and scars and splinters, so what's gotten Carl on edge hides from me at first. But not for too long.

On a panel that would be about eye-level for Carl if he stood, there's a simple carving. Writing on the wall.

YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS.

A message of fire, but it makes me cold.


	11. Responsibility

It's more than just the words. By one of the windows out back, we find scratches. The kind from a knife, or something else sharp and strong. All around the pane. Like someone was trying to pry it open.

Carl says he'll tell Rick about it all, the writing, the scratches. We agree not to tell my dad unless Rick wants to. Well, actually, Carl says I should tell him if I want. But I won't. At least not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe.

But seeing that – YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS – it's not something I can shake. That had to be a message for Gabriel. I can't think of any other explanation. And Gabriel, he's out with our people right now. When they come back, he'll be with them. I didn't trust him this morning. I sure as hell don't trust him now.

Maybe he won't come back.

That's a bad thought.

Maggie, Glenn, and Tara get back. They found a couple of silencers, which is a pretty big score these days. But the biggest score will come when Rick and the others bring back food. If. If the place had stuff left, and if nothing went wrong there, and if nothing goes wrong on the way back.

Always so many _ifs_.

I don't do well sitting around. I pace inside of the church, cracking my knuckles, snap-clicking my trigger. I sit down when Carl asks me to but can't for long. I do not like waiting. I do not like feeling useless, either.

"I'm going to go check around outside," I finally tell Carl.

"Your dad's out there with Abraham. And Rosita and Eugene. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

"They're all out back. I'm going to check around out front."

He doesn't argue after that. We both know the perimeter is as secure as it's going to be. We both know I'm too on edge to stay in this building much longer.

And_ I_ know he thinks I'm upset with him because of what happened earlier. I'm not. I'm just hiding stuff from him. Which he wouldn't like much more. I guess I'll just have to get better at hiding that I'm hiding stuff. Or tell him the truth.

I didn't notice it was so stuffy in the church, but it's a shock stepping outside, how the air feels in my lungs. Fresh and refreshing, like clean, cold water. I inhale greedily, let it out slowly, and that's when I realize I'm not alone. Rosita's sitting on the bottom step, holding a pair of bulky scissors. The blades catch the orange late-afternoon light as she slaps them into her palm and takes me in. "You okay?"

I straighten, press my back against the closed church door. "Uh-huh. Just – needed some air."

"Sounds like it."

I readjust my bow. I haven't really talked to Rosita yet. Haven't talked to her at all, actually. "Did you guys get the bus fixed?"

"Uh, yeah. Your dad helped a lot. You are Daryl's kid, right?"

I nod.

"He seems like a good guy."

I nod again. Then I point at the scissors. "What're you doing?"

"Ah, trimming off some split ends." She flips the scissors over a couple of times, catching the blades and then catching the handle, blades, handle. "It's a habit of mine. Been doing it ever since I was a teenager. Helps me think."

I touch my own hair, still free from its ponytail, tickling my face and neck. "Got a lot to think about?"

"Feels like it."

"Your hair doesn't look like it needs cut."

"Like I said. Just habit." She studies me for a minute, then says, "I could cut yours, if you want."

My index finger and thumb pinch a strand of my hair and twist all up in it. "No. I like it long."

"Yeah, I do, too. It's pretty. But . . ." She stands and takes the four steps up to where I am, and I cautiously bring my hand down when hers comes out to me. She puts a finger lengthwise across my hair, so it's just a little above my first rib. "See these last two inches here, how they look sort of dry and tangled? They're split ends run wild. If I trimmed them off, it would make your hair look a lot healthier."

My hair. I shouldn't care about how healthy it looks, God knows there are more important things.

But I shouldn't care about how skinny I am, or the ugly scars on my arms. I do, though. I guess wanting my hair to be pretty isn't much of a leap.

What the hell.

"Alright."

I sit on the bottom step, where Rosita was just a minute ago, and she sits on the one above me. I push all of my hair over my shoulders and hold my breath until I hear the first _snip. _After that, I relax. Once you dive in, you're in. Might as well chill.

My bow's in my lap. I play with the string and just listen to the scissors. And the trees. And the birds. But after a little while, Rosita starts to talk.

"So, Carl. Is he your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"Seems like a catch." _Snip, snip. _Some of my hair flutters onto my boot. It looks like more than two inches. "You guys been together long?"

"A few months, I guess. Well, we've known each other longer. Since right after the turn. But we were just friends before."

"Yeah? What changed?"

I run my hand over my bow. "I guess we did."

"Hm . . . Well. Abraham's my boyfriend."

"Really?" He seems too old to be her boyfriend.

"Yeah. We met after the turn, too. It's tough, isn't it? Trying to be . . . _romantic_ in the middle of all of this?"

Rosita doesn't seem like the romantic type. She seems . . . I don't know, too _hard _for that. She's really pretty, but she also talks like she's mad a lot and just always seems to be focused on the business at hand. That's not a bad thing, but it's just how she is. Except, that's not how she is right now. Right now she's cutting my hair and talking to me about boys.

I'm pretty hard, too, so I don't really like admitting this . . . but truth is, talking like this is kind of nice. Even if she is a stranger.

"It's weird," I say, plucking my bowstring, moving my toes inside my boots. "He gave me a necklace, though. And some flowers today."

"Mm, that's sweet. Abraham could take a lesson or two from him."

"Is he not a good boyfriend?"

"Ah, he tries. He's just . . . he's got a lot on his mind, you know?"

"Like Eugene. He wants to keep him safe so he can get him to DC. Fix all of this."

"That's right . . . Every couple has their issues. But these days, the issues kind of get more intense. But hey –" She pushes some of my hair to one side, smooths it out, starts snipping some more. "If you ever feel like bitching about your guy, feel free to come talk to me, okay? I'm a good listener."

I decide I like Rosita. "I never feel like bitching about Carl."

"Ha. Believe me. He's a guy. You'll want to bitch about him at some point."

I smile a little, and then, feeling kind of shy, I say, "You can bitch to me about Abraham, if you want."

"Oh, you might want to think that offer over. You may never get rid of me."

I don't think that would be such a bad thing, though.

. . . . .

"You cut your hair," Maggie says when I slide onto her pew. She closes a book and touches it, my hair, and I touch it, too, on the other side. It's strange, running my fingers down it and feeling it end before it should. I like it, though. It's still long, but much softer.

"Rosita just cut it for me."

"It looks great."

I lean against her then. She lifts her arm up for me, and I tuck my hands under my chin and press into her as she wraps me up. She kisses my forehead, I look up at her, and she brushes hair from my eyes and says, "You're gettin' really pretty, you know that?"

I snuggle deeper against her. She's sweaty, but I don't care. I'm sweaty, too.

"Maggie?"

"What?"

"I really missed you."

She starts to rock a little. "I really missed you, too, honey."

I close my eyes.

Maybe I should tell her about Len. She would understand, better than anyone . . . except for LC. But God knows I'd tell everyone in the church before I'd say a thing about it to LC.

That's not true.

But Maggie . . . the Governor, he did something with her. I don't know how far he went, exactly, but it was something bad. So she might be able to help me with this. She'll at least keep the secret, I think, if I ask her, and just getting it out of me might –

But now there's noise from the back of the sanctuary. We break apart and twist to see. Here comes Rick, perfectly fine. Now Michonne, Sasha, Bob. LC. And Father Gabriel. All okay, looks like. And they have food, their arms are all full with it. Glenn and Tara appear from one of the rooms and Rick says something about shopping carts outside. Lots of food, then. That's great, but –

Maggie gets up. My chance is gone.

The rest of our people come in. We blend together. Some of us get out the food, work out the rationing, under the direction of Rick. I'm one of these people. We separate a lot out for tonight, but we still have plenty left. The place they hit, it was stocked pretty good. We got lucky. And I guess we have Gabriel to thank for it, but it really doesn't matter. He moves by me once, and I back as far away from him as I can, and I don't care if he notices. YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS, said the church wall. That means something. Might mean a lot.

Carl took Rick outside right when they got back. So Rick must know now. But we're not doing anything about it yet, I guess, considering he's just here, with the rest of us, dividing up food. I want to do something about it, though. I really, really, want to.

But Rick won't let it slide, I know that for sure. And Rick and me, we agreed – without so many words – to trust each other. So I have to trust he'll handle this right.

The food. We have beans, canned vegetables, soup. It's a good haul, and I'm perfectly content with it, but when Michonne taps my shoulder and presses a little can of peaches into my hand, it officially becomes the best supper I've had in months.

Glenn and Maggie and Tara and Sasha start cracking open cans and propping them up on the table from behind the pulpit, which they've moved closer to the pews. Carl comes to help. I'm standing at the table, wondering if my stomach can hold up to all of this, when he touches my shoulder, very, very lightly. Like I'm breakable. I grab his hand and kiss it and give him a long look. He nods and comes in closer and kisses my head.

"Hey, lovebirds."

Glenn. Naturally, I blush. Carl, though, he does this sheepish sort of grin, and I give him a dirty look when I see.

Glenn jerks his head behind him. "Why don't you guys go see if you can find something that can be used as bowls, or plates, or something . . . Make this meal a little more sophisticated."

"We already have silverware," Maggie says, waving a fork. Rick's group found a box of them on the run, and Maggie's right, they're a luxury. "How much more sophisticated do you want?"

Carl puts his hands on my waist and starts to guide me to Gabriel's office, but when we get around the table, Glenn sort of stiffens and shoots his hand out. "Uh, each of you take a room. Don't . . . go in one alone . . . together."

There's Carl's sheepish grin again. Here's my dirty look again, first at my boyfriend, then at Glenn. "Really?" I say dryly.

His lips kind of squeeze together, maybe with a touch of apology, but not much. "You're the closest thing I have left to a little sister. I'm going to be overprotective. Deal with it."

From down the line, Tara says, "Yeah, but isn't Carl the closest thing you have to a little brother? You should be rooting for him to score, right?"

Carl, he laughs outright, and Maggie lifts a hand to cover her grin. I turn into Carl to hide mine, as well as my burning, burning face. Can't decide if I'm mortified or amused. When I recover, at least from the smile, I look back to see Glenn slouching over the table, bummed.

"Now I'm conflicted," he mutters.

"Sydney, go search the rooms," says Maggie, fighting laughter and glowing with the evening sun, and the candles Sasha is starting to light, and the oh-so rare lightheartedness we've discovered for a precious second. "Carl, go talk to Gabriel, see if he's got anything stored anywhere we could use."

Carl goes still next to me. No more smiles, from either of us. He doesn't want to talk to Gabriel, and I'm about to volunteer to go instead when he takes off down the aisle, to where the priest sits in the back, wringing his hands and watching us all with sweat glistening on his scalp.

I want to follow Carl. But he's fine on his own here, I know that. Logically.

And being logical, that makes me make my legs push forward, until I'm in the priest's office. I'm suddenly aware of how strange this is, me barging in here, preparing to scrounge around like it's open season. Gabriel has been living here, after all – there's a couch with messy blankets and a pillow. A desk with papers and books around it, none of it covered in dust. A few opened cans . . . this has been a home.

But I'm here, and when Gabriel told us he had a church, he accepted these terms – the terms that include a kid searching his office for whatever her group needs. Whether he knew it or not, he accepted. Whether it's right or not . . .

There's what I think is a flower vase sitting by the closed window. It's empty now. I take it, look around some more. There's a purple decorative thing on the desk, bowl-ish, I guess. It can hold stuff. It is holding stuff – paper clips, a mini-stapler, rubber bands. I hesitate, but end up pouring the contents out, though I try to keep all of the stuff in sort of the same place it was in. My mother, she always had her desk exactly how she wanted it – if anything changed about it, she couldn't function until all was set right again. Gabriel might be like that.

Doesn't matter. He accepted these terms. He accepted these terms.

And after what I saw on the side of the church – why should I care about what he wants?

_Because you need to still care, Sydney._

"Hey."

Dad's voice makes me jump. He's in the doorway, but masked by shadow, because all of the lighting is pretty much coming from candles now and all of the candles are in the sanctuary behind him.

"What're ya doin'?"

I balance my two little treasures. "Glenn wanted me to find stuff we could use as bowls, or plates. Anything like that."

"Gettin' fancy, are we?"

I smile for him.

He steps inside the room, his shape only getting darker. But it's still his shape. I know his shape. I know his voice. That's even better. I know my dad.

I used to be so certain of that. Now when I think about it a little voice asks, _Really? Are you sure?_ And I hate that voice. It only ever says the stuff that keeps me up at night. Or locks me away in quiet rooms.

"Owen's outside," Dad says.

"Alone?"

"Yeah. Just sittin' on the steps."

I don't know what to do with that.

"You told me you trusted him," he said. "Back when we were with Joe."

Yes, Dad. I remember.

"You still trust him?"

I think about that for what feels like a long, long time. From the sanctuary, laughter. Talking. It's cold outside, but it's warm in here. I'm in here. We're all in here. Except for one person.

"I don't know," I say. "I really don't know."

Dad nods. Then, "Figure it out."

It's the same voice he uses when he tells me to shoot something. He's not giving me an order, really, but he's not asking a question, either. What he's doing is reminding me of what _I'm_ supposed to be doing. Reminding me of my responsibility. Shoot the squirrel. Deal with the stranger I brought into the group.

The stranger who saved me from rapists, who won me food, who helped sneak me back to my people and took a beating as a result. The stranger who grew up down the street from me. The stranger who isn't a stranger, shouldn't be a stranger, but wants to be one. And really, if you're determined enough, I guess there's no difference. Keep enough secrets, and nobody knows who you really are. You're a stranger to the world.

I can't put it off any more. Dad's as much as said it. Owen's in, or he's out. Whether or not he's out, that's first and foremost his call . . . but whether or not he's in, that's mine. It's mine, or it'll be Dad's. Rick's. But like I said. Dad's reminding _me_ of _my_ responsibility.

Do I trust Owen? Can I?

Figure it out.

How?

There's only one thing I can think of to try.


	12. Son

I step into the cold and close the church door behind me.

Owen's not on the steps. He's standing over by the fence, staring at the sky. It's running out of sunlight, the sky is, and all it can manage now is a deep blue, dull shine, with just the moonlight being of any real use. And even that's not too much help. No, the sun will soon be too far gone to even give out that blue shine, and Owen will be left, essentially, in darkness. If I stay out here too long, I will be, too.

I come down the steps, sliding my hands into my pockets – or, Carl's pockets. This is still his jacket. Still kind of smells like him. My bow tilts awkwardly on my shoulder but my forearms pins it in place as I walk across the yard to him. Owen Wells. Next-door neighbor. Bully. Savior. Criminal.

I stop about six feet behind him, and I take a deep breath. Then I talk.

"You gonna eat?"

He turns easily and falls back against the fence, moving loosely. There's a bottle in his hand. Wine. Churches like this, they use wine for something. I don't think they use it for what Owen's using it for. "Nah," he says, holding up the bottle. "I've got all the nourishment I need right here." He takes a good swig and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of that abused leather jacket of his. "I'm not much of a wine man, truth be told, but, you know – take what you can get."

I look at the bottle, gleaming just a little from the moon, and then back to Owen. He isn't drunk. I know what drunk looks like. But he's talking all slow – I think he wants me to believe he is. But I'm smarter than he thinks. Or he's dumber than he knows.

Or maybe we both just want things to work out in the easiest way possible. With me walking away. With him getting wasted, and maybe stumbling out into the woods to die.

But I don't want Owen to die. That's one of those facts you find deep inside you, embedded, and you know you're stuck with it. Unless something really, really drastic happens. Then that fact will be ripped from your gut and, oh, how blood spills then.

He holds out the bottle to me. I shake my head. He laughs. "Yeah. Figured."

"I prefer vodka."

"You serious? No, dumb question, no one prefers vodka."

I don't, that's for sure. But it sounded like something cool to say.

He drapes one arm over the fence. I can't see him well, not with night edging in all around us, and I don't like that. I have my bow, of course. But it's not walkers I'm afraid of. And I'm not afraid of Owen, either.

I'm just afraid. The way I always kind of am. Only it's different this time, out here, with him.

"What can I do ya for, Sydney?"

Like I said, there's not much light to see by, but there's enough that I can't help thinking about how much he looks like Tyler. Same hair, same eyes. But somewhere in there, under the blonde locks and past the brown gaze and inside the scarred skin, is Joe. Joe, in Owen's blood, in his flesh, his genes, his brain, his heart, his soul. But I can't see him. And that helps me now.

"My dad just asked me if I trusted you," I say. "I told him I don't know."

"How brutally honest of you."

"It wasn't honest."

"No?"

"No. I do trust you. With my life. But it's not about my life anymore." I point at the church, glowing so dimly, but glowing, like the sun's setting inside of there instead of somewhere out where the forest won't let me see. It was warm in there, and looks even warmer from out here. My home's in there. My family. "It's about their lives. And I don't trust you with their lives, Owen. I just don't. But I want to."

"I'm flattered."

"Earlier today, when we met Gabriel. Rick asked him three questions. Do you remember what they were?"

Owen lifts the bottle to his lips and pops his eyebrows, eyes somewhere overhead. "Vaguely."

"They're the questions we always ask people before we bring them into our group."

"That right?"

"I never asked you them."

"No. But in your defense, you were too busy getting me to save your life. Again and again."

"Owen. I have thanked you and thanked you for what you've done for me. And I've vouched for you. But I can't keep doing that. Not when you won't tell me _anything _about _anything_, because it isn't about just me surviving now –"

"Yeah, I know, it's about _them." _He tilts the bottle at the church. "The cop who left you for dead, the mother who faked a bite, and the father who may or may not have looked for you."

"You really want to compare notes on fathers?"

And that is what it takes, apparently, to wipe a smirk from Owen Wells's face. A half-thought through comment spat into the air like it's nothing.

"You like to hit back, don't you?" he asks after a stretch of incredibly delicate silence, the kind that makes you feel like the next word you say could shatter something very important. But Owen doesn't shatter a thing. He just drinks again, easy, and goes on, "That's admirable. Until someone hits you so hard you can't get back up."

Darker, it's getting darker. But my eyes are adjusting, and I don't like what I see, even though his walled-off face is exactly what I would have expected. "It hasn't happened yet."

"It always does."

I wonder if he's right. I wonder if he thinks it'll be him to hit me that hard. I wonder if he wants it to be.

"I need to ask you those three questions."

He considers this. Considers me. Then up comes one corner of his lips. "Tell you what, Miss Dixon. I'll answer the questions if you answer them, too."

I inhale.

"Only seems fair, right? You learn shit about me. I learn shit about you. Everyone goes home a winner."

"Fine."

"Fine." He folds his knee and props the heel of his foot on the fence. Jerks his chin up. "Hit me."

I've never asked these questions before. Not on my own. But I know them, know them well, and I'm old enough to handle this. Every part of this.

I square my feet and begin.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

"Four thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two. You?"

"About the same."

"Mm." Drink. "Let's see, the next question was, God, I know this, uh – oh, yeah, yeah. How many people have you killed?"

And me, well, down memory lane I go, fast, speeding on a motorcycle. There's the Governor spitting up blood. There's Len twitching on his side.

"Two." Not long ago, I would have said three. But I'm better.

Owen folds his bottom lip out and nods to himself before holding up his free hand, fingers spread. Five. That hand killed five people, and can even represent them all. They were living, beating hearts, and now they're just someone else's fingers.

"Why?" I whisper. Last question. Hardest question.

Owen doesn't move. I wait. Wait.

"Why?" he finally says back, just as softly. I gaze at his hand.

"I was defending myself," I say. "And before that, I was defending someone I love."

Maybe I shouldn't have obliged him, shouldn't have answered first. He could shut up now, not tell me a thing, leave me to wonder about the whys and wonder what I'm going to do with the giant void where the most important answer of all should be.

But Owen, he's a man of his word. That's what he told me the first day we reunited. And, for better or worse, I believed him. I still do. I believe him when he pushes off the fence, curls his little finger down, and says, "Because Joe told me to." I believe him when he flips his ring finger down and repeats himself – "Because Joe told me to." I believe him when his middle finger goes down and he says, "Because Joe told me to," and I believe him when his index finger goes down and he says, "Because Joe told me to."

He's been coming towards me all this time, moving a step for every finger brought down, and I can smell the wine on his breath. Only his thumb is still up, jutting out to the side, not up, not down, just there, stuck to a hand that jerks a few times, like Owen's trying to shake the thumb right off, but then he finally says, with lips so close I can damn near _taste_ the wine, and eyes wide and wild –

"Because I am_ a bad person."_

The words are like rocks tumbling down a mountain. As rough and as deadly. His thumb folds down and the now-fist falls. He doesn't back up. I can't.

"I'll be gone by mornin'."

I stare at his fist.

"You go back inside, sweetheart. Eat, drink, be merry. Screw around with your skinny boyfriend. Don't you worry about me . . . I won't worry about you."

I lift my eyes to his. They're not wild anymore. They're just dangerous. The candles from the church turn them to embers. How badly they burn.

"I see it now," I murmur.

Gritted teeth, slow words. "See what?"

But I just shake my head. I just shake my head, turn away – turn my back – and walk to the church. It's totally dark out here now. I wanted to get inside before the dark came. But better late than never.

"See_ what?" _he shouts from behind me. Wild, wild._ "_Sydney – damn it, _what?"_

I'm at the top of the steps when I stop. I don't stop for him. It's a selfish stop.

I whirl and take the steps fast, until I'm feeling soft soil giving under my boots, and I plant myself and turn my hands to fists just as good as the one he still holds, and I demand the one answer I'm truly entitled to.

"How did Tyler die?"

The wine bottle, it shines. Shines with Owen's eyes. What a pair. But the bottle is mostly catching the moonlight, and Owen's eyes are catching the candlelight. The bottle gleams, the eyes simmer.

And he snarls, _"Slowly."_

The word crushes my chest.

"You're a son of a bitch."

Owen laughs. "No. I'm a son of a dick." His arm swings up in a graceful arc and releases the wine bottle to its moon. Before long, gravity remembers that bottles are better at falling than flying, and so it makes the bottle fall, and oh, how fast the fall is, and how terribly it ends. There's an explosion of glass and wine. It's a waste. And Owen laughs some more.

I climb up the steps and let the darkness have him. If anyone inside takes a look at me, and asks why I'm crying, I don't know what I'll tell them. Because, even as the first tear slides down my cheek, I honestly don't know why myself.


	13. Leah

There's a bathroom in the church, like there are in most churches. I go to it. Plumbing doesn't work, so I don't go to it to do anything necessary. I go to it so I can be alone. Close the door, and it's almost dark. Not the dark from outside. A warm dark. A blanket. Moonlight pours through the window high above – a privacy window, is what it's called – and once my eyes adjust, I can see everything pretty clearly. Old white sink and toilet, plugged into the wall under the window, I think going kind of yellow. There's a dusty mirror above the sink. The floor is tile. Stained with stuff I don't want to think about. But hell, I lived in a prison. Mystery stains don't really bother me. Which I guess is why I'm okay sitting down on the floor, to the left of the door, with my arms wrapped around my knees. I can hear the others, but not very well. Not underneath my blanket, safe and sound, me and my bow.

But someone knocks not long after I close myself in here. If it has to be someone, I hope it's Carl.

"You decent?"

Dad.

I rub one of my eyes, then stretch out to grapple at the doorknob until it turns, the door opens, and my father is revealed. Some light comes in, but not a lot. The bathroom is connected to the spare room, so that's an entire area of lightlessness to stifle out the candlelight from the sanctuary. Still. My dark warm blanket is definitely thinner now.

Kind of asked for Dad to come check up on me, I guess. Wasn't being too subtle when I came back into the church and made a beeline for the bathroom. Tried to hide the tears. Probably didn't matter much.

Dad looks down at me, and I say, "Owen'll be gone by morning."

His tongue moves around in his mouth.

"It's for the best," I say.

A moment, and then he says, "So I guess this means you ain't up for playing no piano?"

It's a weak attempt at a joke – if it is even a joke – and I don't bother replying.

He clears his throat. "Leah wants to talk to you."

"Leah?" I repeat.

Ah, that gets him. He shifts his weight. "I've called her that for thirteen years."

"And I called her Mom."

He has no reply.

"I know you said you didn't sleep with her." I don't feel very passionate about this conversation, I find. My potential for emotion has more or less been drained. My film's up, keeping any new feelings from sneaking in. All I really am right now is curious. "But something changed, didn't it?"

Dad lowers to the ground. Leans against the doorframe. Doesn't look at me for a while and then does. "What she did?"

Special gentle voice. What does he mean? Oh, faking her death and sending me away. Yeah, that.

"There ain't no justifyin' that."

Nope.

"No erasin' it."

Nope.

"But I know her, Sydney."

My film hardens. Constricts. Readies.

"I forgot that. Felt like maybe I never had, after all. But it turns out, I did. And I still do."

Oh, Dad. You're under her spell again. Won't be long now. Next time we're in a place with a bed. Then again, I know enough about sex to know that a bed is optional. Maybe later on the two of them will go behind the pews and have one of their special nights together, the ones that don't mean anything, oh no, are Mama and Daddy getting back together? No, that'll never happen. We just can't keep our hands off each other, sweetheart.

"Her head don't work right all the time, baby girl. It's been that way since I met her."

Her head don't work right. Well, that's obvious enough, looking back. Looking here. And yet, Dad, after you met her, you still stayed with her long enough to get her pregnant.

"But she loves you."

And that – that is what cuts a slit in the film. Out of that slit comes: "Bullshit."

"She loves you more'n anything."

"Just like you do, right?" I'm impressed, distantly, by how calm my voice is. Then again, it might be too calm. The creepy kind of calm. "I mean, that's what you always tell me."

"And I always mean it."

"Then why –"

"What?"

I examine a scuff on the floor, possibly made by me, by these boots, these black boots with the studs. Love these boots. I answer Dad in that same calm voice. In spite of the slit, the film still has me bound, for the most part. Protecting me and keeping me under control.

"You told me Uncle Merle loved me more than anything, but he kidnapped me. You're telling me that LC – Leah, if you want – loves me more than anything, but she snuck out one night and had an ex-boyfriend tear a chunk out of her arm with his _teeth_. And made us leave her. And was dead for a year." From the scuff to my daddy's eyes. Mm. They tell me that this really isn't going the way he planned. "And _you_ say you love me more than anything." I shake my head. "But I just don't really trust those words anymore, y'know?"

One, two, three beats. They sound like they're having a ball in the sanctuary. I wonder if Owen came back in, or if he'll ever come back in. Maybe he'll just wander off into the woods, no bags, no anything.

Dad says, "Sydney. People are complicated. They screw up."

"Yeah. They do."

"You can't let it ruin you."

Neither of us says anything for ten seconds or so after that, and neither of us looks away. I don't see a reason to. We're not fighting, after all, are we, Daddy? I'm not ruined.

"Do you want to talk to her or not?" he asks.

"Why does she want to talk to me?"

"Everyone out there's pretty much figured out that Owen's good as gone. She's the only one other than you who knew him."

Maybe she wants to hold hands and mourn for our final fallen neighbor. Maybe she hopes we can bond over our most recent mutual loss.

"Let her talk to you, Sydney."

And I'm as surprised as anyone else would be when I say, "Fine."

. . . . .

Since reuniting with the woman who was my mother, I have not had a real conversation with her. The closest I've come is when I shrieked at her while my head was trying to process her being alive right after we found her at Woodbury, and her crying back, trying to get me to listen to words that really didn't matter. But now, as she enters the bathroom and shuts the door behind her, and we're all alone, I'm pretty much indifferent. A very, very far cry from that shrieking girl from a year ago. God bless the film.

LC sits and leans against the wall opposite me, but a little to the left, so we're not directly across from one another. It takes her so long to start speaking that I'm wondering if she expects me to say something first, maybe around the same time hell freezes over.

"He was the last thing you had left of Tyler," comes the voice made for lullabies. "I know you wanted him to stay. I did, too. I'm sorry."

I think.

Then I say, "You abandoned me."

And she says, "Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"I thought I wanted to die."

"And leave me behind."

No response. If I wanted to, I know I could see her just fine in the moonlight, but I have no desire.

Storytime.

"Right after the turn – after we got separated from Merle in Atlanta – our group, we went to the CDC, because we thought it would be safe and they might have a cure."

"I know. Rick told me all about it."

"So he told you how the scientist there locked us all inside and waited for the place to blow up?"

"Yes."

"Dad was scared. Carl was scared, pretty much everyone was scared. Except, I wasn't scared." I lean my head back. The window pane is very dirty. "See, I figured, if I died, I'd go to heaven. And I would see you again. _I miss Mom_, I told Dad. _I wanna see Mom . . . _The scientist, he eventually opened the doors back up. And I left with Dad. For Dad. But if he hadn't been there . . ." And now, now the desire does spike in me, and I do look at her and see her just fine in the moonlight. And what do you know, she's already crying. "If there is a heaven," I say, "I guess I would have been pretty disappointed when I showed up there, huh?"

She wipes her eyes. Oddly enough, mine have gone completely dry. "Baby . . ."

"You know, if you had asked me – right before the turn – which parent I could depend on most . . . I would have said you."

And then, suddenly, my eyes are not dry. Suddenly, they are flooded.

"You were a drunk . . . I _knew _you were a drunk. I'd cleaned up puddles of vomit and woke you up because your alarm clock couldn't do the trick, and made you coffee, and lied when people called for you, said you were in the shower, or at work, or _anyplace_ doing _something_ other than stumbling around like – like a _damn _walker! Or passed out in your office! Take all that into account, and I _still would have said you!"_

The film falls off of me, I'm a snake shedding skin. No longer bound. No longer constricted. No longer under control.

"Because you were Mom! You were _Home!_ You were _Everything's gonna be alright, honey!"_

I should lower my voice. Loud voices bring people, and other things. Oh, soaking, swollen eyes now, just like LC's. But I laugh, laugh at the dirty window.

"You know, Mom," I say, just to try the silly little word out, to mock it, to listen to how ridiculous it sounds, "I would love _so much_ to let you in again. Even just a little. There's so much I should be talking to you about."

_I started my period._

_Carl gave me this necklace, isn't it pretty? Let me tell you about our first kiss._

_Things are off with Dad and me._

_Rosita cut my hair, do you like it?_

_I want Nana and Papaw._

_Mom, I've lost so many people, and I miss them all the time. Let me tell you about them._

_Owen sort of just broke my heart._

"But just hearing your voice . . . I can't even stand it. "

Her head is leaned back like mine was. She's beautiful, shining white. She's always been so beautiful, even with tears streaming down her pretty pale face, but she's hideous, too. They always told me, back in school, that it's what's on the inside that counts. I never knew how right they were.

"You _left_ me. You worked with the Governor. _Slept_ with him."

Her beautiful face twists all up to match what's inside her and she covers it with a hand. Her shoulders shake.

"I understand that I grew in your belly, and came from you, and that everything about me is _half_ you, and that you raised me, pretty much on your own." My throat catches up with my eyes, so as the tears really start going, it gets harder to talk. I just talk with more force then, higher volume, spit it out like I mean it, and I damn well do. "But somehow . . . you've stopped being my mother. You are just _not my mother."_

And now I'm on my feet. My body feels so light.

"I can deal with Owen leaving. _So_ many worse things have happened to me than that. And now, ha! The worst thing of all comes in here and tries to _comfort_ me. And you know what?" I viciously swipe my palms across my cheeks, squeeze the tears out with fists. "Good job. I feel better."

No, I just feel. And that's not better. But she doesn't need to know that. She doesn't need to know anything about me anymore.

I reach for the doorknob, but wait, hand, I'm not done. I turn back to LC. Leah. Mom. Mama. Whoever the hell she is.

"Losing Owen is nothing. Losing my mother . . . now, that was somethin'." I step towards her. Lean down a little. "But I got over it," I hiss. "I can get over _anything_."

Now I back up and take hold of the doorknob. She's slumped against the wall, one hand smothering her cries and the other damming off tears. Sobs rack her body. Beautiful Leah Cartwright has become an awful mess of a woman. The thing is, she finally looks it, falling apart on a stained bathroom floor in a church with YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS carved into its side.

I open the door. "Don't you worry about me. I won't worry about you."


	14. Should Know Better

"We're in."

Those are the first words I hear when I emerge from my hiding spot, back into – it's a funny name, considering – the _sanctuary. _Those words, they were Rick's. I see him, sitting on the floor with Judith in his lap. He looks happy. Yep. Rick looks happy.

Sanctuary. A funny name, Sydney? Why? It _should _be my sanctuary. This is my group. My people. My family. But at the moment, I'm just on the outside looking in. What makes it so wrong is that I don't really want to change that.

_You can't let it ruin you._

What did you mean by that, anyway, Dad? Aren't I already ruined? We all are, right? In a sense, yeah, I'd say so. Is there coming back from it?

Rick and I forgave each other.

But the past is history, and history doesn't change. Rick and me and the couch and the gun, it's a story written down inside of me.

People are clapping. My people. There's a little of what I guess you could call cheering. More smiles, not just Rick's. Tyreese. Bob. Sasha. Smiling, smiling, smiling. And Abraham, he's standing up at the front of the church, which tells me exactly what Rick decided _We're in_ for.

To DC we go.

I press my thumbs into my eyeballs until stars are exploding on my eyelids. My thumbs, they come away wet. Ah, there's no hiding it. Anyone who gets a good look at me will be able to tell I've been crying. Might as well accept that. All I have to say, after all, is that I talked to LC. Everyone who knows me will understand. Everyone who knows me well won't press me further.

Across the sanctuary and over heads, Carl is bending to take Judith from Rick. Just as he lifts up, with her in his arms, he sees me. I give a crooked smile. He doesn't try to give one back.

I rest against the wall and rub my eyes one more time, waiting for him to come over, because he will. When he's gotten here, Judith reaches out to me, and I reach back to her, stroking her wonderful, too-soft-to-believe hair. And Carl touches shoulders with me. His murmur is soothing. "What can I do?"

"Let me fall asleep beside you tonight."

"Your dad won't like that."

"Nope." I sniff, let out a long, ragged breath, and nod at Judith. "Can I have her? I could use some baby talk."

When she's safe and sound in my arms, I press my cheek against the side of her head and breathe her in. Relax, Sydney. You're safe. Judith is safe. Carl, everyone. Safe.

"DC, huh?" I say.

"DC."

Smile again, Sydney. Yes, just one more. "Be just your cup of tea, city boy."

I get a Carl smile back, so it was worth a Sydney smile.

I walk the length of the church, between the wall and the pews on this side. "What do you think, Judith?" I say quietly, bouncing her like Carl taught me to. "Are all of our problems gonna go away in DC? Zap, boom, no more walkers?"

She's fascinated by my slightly-shorter hair. Naturally, she sticks some of it in her mouth.

"No, no, that won't taste good . . . Let's sing a song. You want a song? My Papaw, he used to sing me "Mr. Bojangles." It's about a dancer. Wanna hear it?"

But just before I start in with the first verse, I see Carol.

She's not up front, with the others, eating and – as Owen would say – being merry. Looking forward to a trip to our nation's capital. No, Carol is at the church doors. Carol has a bag. Carol glances over her shoulder, but doesn't see me, no, I'm tucked over here to the side, and Carol hesitates, but then she goes. Through the church doors. Out into the world.

With a bag.

I count to ten. Decide to get up to twenty to be safe. Then I walk in between two pews and go the short distance up the rest of the aisle, and, propping Judith on my hip and balancing her there with one hand, I use the other to open one of the doors. Just a crack.

"It's okay, Judy . . ."

I peek out.

I see Carol because of her silver hair, mostly. It catches the moonlight like everything else. The rest of her outline draws itself out, gets smaller and smaller, until she's at the edge of the woods.

Once there, she meets up with another head of light-colored hair. Higher above hers and messier, longer.

And then both of those silver glows vanish into the forest like ghosts through a wall.

I close the door. I grip the handle for a while. Grip it as hard as an invisible fist is gripping my gut.

_No, Carol. Not you. Not you, too._

Judith whines. I snap my palm open, off the handle, and put that palm on her belly before turning and searching for the man who can always fix everything – so I once believed. I can believe it again, for tonight. It's true for tonight – he can fix everything about _this_. Everything about Carol.

There.

Dad is up front with the others, but at the edge of the group, sitting on the floor and leaning on a pew, and he's the closest one of all to me, except for Bob, right across from him. Bob. My dad didn't like him for a while, after – after that run for meds, but maybe he's gotten over it. After everything, I think I would have gotten over it.

I have. There's too much new bad stuff to not forget at least some of the old.

I go to Dad, stand over him, me and Judith. He takes me in. The red eyes. But it isn't the time to worry about that, Dad.

"Can I talk to you?" I say, readjusting the baby.

Dad's on his feet immediately, crossbow in hand, as always. I lead him up the aisle, walking fast. He takes my shoulder. He thinks this is about me. I stop at the doors, check to make that there's still no one close, and say, "Carol just left. With a bag."

Dad's face turns to stone.

"I looked outside. She was with Owen."

_I'll be gone by mornin'._

"They head out?"

"Yeah. Into the woods."

"You see which way?"

I take him outside, and we stand on the front steps and I point out into the black.

"Alright," he says, and then he's bounding to the ground.

"Wait – I'll go with you."

"No. You stay here. I'll bring her back."

"Dad –"

"I said no, Sydney."

I watch him walk away. Fade slowly, and then disappear all at once. Judith has gone absolutely quiet. She understands these things, Judith. The seriousness of them. Such a smart girl.

"You should know better by now, Dad," I whisper, almost sadly.

I return inside. I find Maggie. Give her the baby.

"Sydney, do you wanna –?"

"No." Then I go back up the aisle, back outside. I sit on the steps with my bow on my lap. I can see my breath. A cigarette would be lovely. I stare at the spot in the woods that sucked up Carol, Owen, and my Dad. The black hole.

I count to twenty. Then I go.


	15. Six Years Old: Secrets

_ "What'dya mean, ya quit?"_

_ I like Daddy's truck better than Mama's car because I get to ride in the front seat and I can pull my legs underneath me without worrying about making the seat dirty, but I don't like it all that better now. Because this time while I'm in it, I'm lying, and what's worse, I'm lying to Daddy, and if he finds out he'll get so mad –_

_ But Mama said she'd let me do this if I really wanted to. And I really want to._

_ "I'm just not gonna do piano anymore."_

_ "Thought you liked it."_

_ I press my forehead against the glass. We're going through a field with tall, dead grass, and there's a forest way off. Looks like a nice forest. _

_ "I mean, with your Mama playin', your Papaw . . . and you were good in that recital, Syd. You were."_

_ "I didn't really like doing it. I don't really like playing, even. It's boring."_

_ An hour ago, I was sitting at Mama's piano, practicing, just because. Now I'm here, a liar, liar, liar._

_ After a little while, Daddy says, "Alright. If that's what you want." Another little while, then he says, "That might free up a couple extra weekends for us to go huntin', at least."_

_ I think, and think, and then I say, "Are you still supposed to get me every other weekend?" I look at him. He does something weird with his mouth._

_ "Yep."_

_ "But this is the first time you've got me in a while . . . ain't it?"_

_ "Your mama don't like it when you say that."_

"_Isn't it the first time though, in a while?"_

"_Been busy, Sydney."_

_I bite my lip and say, "Mama said you didn't call last time, to tell her you weren't comin'. She had me all packed up and everything –"_

"_I told you, I been busy!"_

_That hushes me up._

"_I got . . . work, and . . ." He stops there, and me, I rub my hands all together and get my fingers tangled up and blink really hard so it all won't look like a big fuzzball. _

_Before long, Daddy says something so soft I can't really hear and then he massages my neck like he does sometimes when I'm sad, but I don't want him to think I'm sad, I'm his tough girl, so I straighten up and look right out at the road and hope my eyes aren't swollen up too bad. And Daddy says, "Look, we're gonna have fun this weekend. Okay? Head out huntin' in the mornin'. And tell you what, we'll stop and get some pizza for tonight. Maybe some ice cream, if you're a good girl. Your uncle ain't – isn't gonna be at the house till tomorrow, so we don't even got to share. Just don't tell your Mama."_

_I nod._

"_Alright." He clears his throat and lets go of my neck. "So dry up, then. Didn't give ya nothin' to cry about."_

_That only makes me want to cry more and so I press my head back against the glass and don't say another word for the whole rest of the drive. And I wonder what kept him so busy that he couldn't pick me up for his weekends. I wonder if maybe Daddy has secrets, too._


	16. Back

Everything about this is wrong.

The four of us, we shouldn't be in this car. This car was only for if the church turned out to be a bad idea, and it hasn't, not yet. The four of us shouldn't have even left the church tonight. But we did. And I don't understand, really, why any of us chose to do that. All I know is that we've ended up on a strange road in a strange car with what-were-taillights busted out by my dad. That the shape way ahead of us, with the white cross on the rear window that you can see if you squint, is guiding us somewhere dangerous. That I feel uncomfortable with every single other person in this car. And that Beth may be alive, and my dad is desperate to find her.

. . . . .

I followed Dad through the woods for a while, so much better at it than I had been two years before. I'm not a clumsy kid these. I'm a survivor, and in those woods I survived, survived the walkers infesting all of the space around me and survived my dad's overdeveloped senses. I know darkness, I know shadows. I can copy them very easily now.

Dad reached the road, reached the car. I don't think he even tracked, really, God knows it's hard in the dark, and Dad didn't even have a flashlight. I think he just knew they would both be there, at that car, the escape car. I think I should have known, too.

I was too far behind him to hear what he said right when he broke out onto the road, but by the time I crept up to the forest's edge, I could hear him fine.

"You even know how to drive?"

A chuckle. "Pretty well, actually."

That was, of course, Owen.

"Yeah? Know how to live out there on your own?"

"Guess I'll find out."

"You shouldn't go." Carol.

"You were the one who told me I could come."

That hit me hard. And it must have hit Dad hard, too – not only was Carol leaving, but she had been the one to get the ball rolling. Not Owen.

"Because I knew you were leaving anyway," said Carol, and, softer, "And nobody should be out there on their own."

"You know, I said something like that to Sydney once. Told her she wouldn't survive a day on her own, after she ended up in that house with a group of dicks and no one but little ole me to protect her. She wanted to go, but I told her that."

This is when I crept forward even farther, settled myself between two trees, where I could see Owen clear as day. He was leaning against the back of the car. "Hindsight twenty-twenty," he said, bobbing his head to the side and back, "I'd say she'd make it to at least three days. Bet I can crack four."

"You think this is a joke?" Dad.

Owen shook his head. "Hell no. But just because it ain't a joke, don't mean it ain't funny."

"Look," Dad said, not mean at all, "Come back with us. We'll sit down with Rick. Maybe Leah, she knows you. Maybe Sydney –"

"Sydney isn't about to come to my defense, I can tell you that much."

"Yeah? Wanna tell me why not?"

"Nah, ask her yourself." At that moment, his eyes pierced through the brush and sank into my own. "Hey, Sydney? Your dad wants you."

I closed my eyes, then stepped out from the forest.

I don't think I need to go into too much detail about Dad's reaction.

When he was through the worst of it, I told Owen, "You don't know whether I'd come to your defense or not."

"Oh, the hell I don't."

"I never told you to go."

"You would have."

"Maybe! I don't know! I know that I'm just about the last person in the world who would wanna exile someone!"

Right away, I hated myself for saying that, for letting me say that. Dad and Carol, they probably just thought it was me being better than I actually am, or trying to be. But Owen, he knew exactly what pulled those words from my gut, and his eyes said that better than any words could have.

"Come back," I said. "Let's talk."

I don't know how he would have answered, probably never will, because that's when the other car came by. It didn't blow directly past us. It was on a road ahead of us a ways, a road that intersected ours, and we all hunkered down by the car without discussion but then, once the car had passed, Dad ran up to look after it. Then he came back, used his crossbow to bash out the taillights, and told us all to get in the car.

Those were the people who had taken Beth, he said.

And that, that's how I came to be in a car moving closer and closer towards the unknown and farther and farther from Carl and everything he's with. In a car with Dad, who hides things from me and who I hide things from, and Carol, who seems to want nothing to do with me now, and Owen, who killed someone because he's a bad person.

The tires hiss along the road. The headlights are off. We are as invisible out here on the asphalt as I was out there in the woods. But out here, I'm protected by three other warm bodies and a steel shelter on wheels, and out there, it was just me and my bow. But I feel more exposed now than I did then.

The adrenaline that pumped us all up when the car went by, when dad rushed us in here, is starting to settle. I don't like this time, the in-between time. I want to be up or down. Not sinking.

Mostly, I want to be in the church with Carl, filling my belly because I almost never have trouble doing that with Carl around. I want to feel his warm skin, the beat of his heart. I want to hear our family laughing like it never gets to do and I want to accept that it's a good night, for once.

But I'm here. Here, when Carol asks, "So it was just you and Beth after?"

And when Dad answers, "No. Leah was there, too."

At the mention of my mother's name, Owen's head rolls towards me. He's sunk low in his seat, like he's on a boring road trip with his family. I don't give him the satisfaction of looking back at him.

Carol asks, "You two save her? Beth, I mean?"

"She's tough. She saved herself."

I start nibbling a knuckle.

"We were out there for a while . . . We got cornered, she got out in fronta me, 'n . . . I don't know, she's gone. And now a car's pullin' out with a white cross on the window."

"Just like that one."

"Yep."

The car bumps over something, like we hit an animal. Probably wasn't an animal.

I slide up closer to the front, hold the back of Dad's seat. Look out through the windshield. There's the car, the mysterious car with the Beth-stealers. Beth. The night Owen and I snuck away from his group and my dad to find my people, we came across the remains of a corpse with blonde hair. I thought it might have been Beth. I can remember that feeling. How it gripped me, so hard I knew just a little more pressure would shatter something crucial inside of me. And the relief I had when I realized the hair was too dark to be hers . . . That's how you know you love someone. When you smile over a body because it's not theirs.

But this is all so fast.

"Rick'll wonder where we went," I say. "They all will." What I mostly mean is, _Carl's going to be scared._

"We'll get back before they can worry too much," says Dad. What he mostly means is, _Carl can wait._

I rub the rose hanging from my neck with my thumb and middle finger. Carl's waited for me too much already.

"We can end this quick, just run 'em off the road," says Carol, and I like that idea.

Dad doesn't. "Nah. Tank's runnin' low, but we're good for a bit."

"If they're holding her somewhere, we can get it out of the driver."

"Yeah, but if he don't talk, we're back to square one."

But Dad, you've made people talk before.

"Right now," Dad says, "We've got the advantage . . . Syd, slide back. Buckle up."

I slide back, but I don't buckle up. No one else has. Owen yawns.

"We'll see who they are," Dad says, "If they're a group, see what they can do . . . Then we'll do what we gotta do to get her back."

Owen shifts. That's enough to set off an alert in my head.

"Damn, Daryl. If you're running this hard after some girl you only met a couple years ago, you musta been absolutely rabid tryin' to find Sydney."

I swing my head towards Owen so fast it cracks. My adrenaline spikes up again, and Owen, he doesn't blink, only looks at me like . . . like _Let's just see how he answers. Let's just see if he lies._

Like, _You know he will._

Dad takes too long to answer, just a little too long, but it could be that I'm paranoid and he was just thinking more important thoughts. "Not somethin' I wanna talk about."

"Got it," Owen says. His eyes stay on mine. I keep staring at him with my worst stare, my worst _glare_, the one that my mother said I got from Dad and that Dad said I got from my mother. It doesn't faze him. He doesn't back down.

I just go back to ignoring him, crossing my arms, getting as far from him as I can in this all-too-small backseat.

"They're heading north," says Carol. "I-85."

I don't know what that means until the time when I look out the window and see a sea of dead cars. I mean a _sea_. And I know right away where we are but I look ahead anyway, because hey, I've been wrong before.

But there are the buildings, tall, tall, tall, and looking A-OK in the dark, stretching up like they could go on forever if they wanted to.

We've come back to Atlanta.


	17. Children

We stop only when the other car stops, at a dead stoplight among dead buildings outside of the dead city.

My hand is tight and white on my bow. It has been for a while. "The hell's he waitin' for?" Dad mutters. He's turned our car off.

As for the other car, its taillights go off. Which means the car has, just like ours.

We wait. Owen's finally straightened up. Still looks bored, but he's watching. He's aware. Ready.

One shape comes out of the car's passenger side.

"There's two of 'em," Dad breathes. Yes. A driver, a passenger. May be even more, in the back, but I don't say it. I get up close to his seat again. It's a tall man out there. And there's something strange about his outfit. Dad nails it. "Is that a cop?"

Carol moves some, and Dad looks at her and she looks back. "He might've seen us," she says simply, and I don't know what she means until something catches moonlight in her lap. She's pulled her gun.

The man – the cop – walks down a sidewalk and behind a building.

Time, then a little more, and Carol sighs and then something slams against her window and I don't think any of us have a problem with adrenaline after that. It's just a walker, though, snarling at her and pounding on the glass, hungry, or just doing what it's supposed to do.

The cop comes back again, carrying two bikes. He drops them under a streetlight right by his car. Then he drags something, probably a body, out of the street and dusts off his hands. Starts back for his car. Stops right next to it. Stares at us.

Or, more likely, at the walker dying to get into just another lifeless car.

But then, slowly, the cop gets back into his own vehicle. The taillights come back on. The driver drives them away, turning right, vanishing behind the same building the cop vanished behind when it was just him.

Dad twists the key, but our engine makes the kind of _vrvrvrvrvrvrvrvr! _sound you never want an engine to make. "Shit!" Dad whacks his hand on the wheel. "Tank's tapped . . ." He falls back, and I rest my chin on his seat and look at the empty space ahead of us, then check the rearview mirror, look at the empty space behind us.

Just to Carol, Dad whispers, "They'da takin' the bypass, and they didn't, they must be holed up in the city somewhere."

She doesn't answer.

Then Owen speaks up. "Anyone else hear that?"

And, when we're listening, we do. I do, anyway. Between the growls and bangs from Carol's walker, there are even more moans to be heard, coming from all around us, like the car's haunted by tired ghosts.

"Probably be a good idea to move," Owen says.

"You think?" Dad twists, searching behind Owen and me, then untwists, says, "We gotta find someplace to hole up till sunlight."

"I know a place," says Carol. "Just a couple of blocks from here, we can make it."

And we do.

. . . . .

It's the kind of place that you know was pretty nice, before. A big lobby, with still-shiny tile and even a plastic plant that's managed to stay upright. Carol gives Dad a flashlight. He leads the way across the room. There's a dead body slumped against a wall. Dead-dead, I mean. That's where we get lucky. Dad finds a set of keys on the corpse.

Down a hall, a hall that reminds me too much of the one at the vet school, just as dark and dangerous. Just as many mystery doors. But we make it through without any problems. Carol's behind Dad, I'm behind Carol, and Owen's behind me. I trust him enough to turn my back on him – trust him with _my _life, remember – but I may want him to go anyway. Or, need him to go. The whole damn situation is twisted as hell, and this little side-trip has only made it worse.

_Because I am a bad person._

Why didn't he just go back to the church? Why did he even bother to listen when Dad said to get in the car? I don't think Dad would have cared if Owen had bailed out. Might have preferred it.

But Owen didn't.

At the very end of the hall, Dad unlocks a door and Carol cuts him and goes through first. The door has a glass window and there are big words written on it, but I only catch one before the flashlight beam leaves it alone: CENTER. Me and Owen, we follow the grownups through and now we're in an office sort of room, with file cabinets and a desk. I guess it is just an office, plain and simple – or, was. Sometimes it can be hard to tell exactly what a room was, though.

"You use to work here or somethin'?" Dad asks Carol.

"Somethin'." She has her knife out and ready, but she looks around calmly. Catches my gaze once and acts like she doesn't.

"Owen." Dad nods at the desk. "Gimme a hand with this."

Owen, to his credit, wordlessly helps dad push the desk against the door. Dad locks it, too. Pretty good security, considering what we've lived with in the past.

Not counting the prison, of course.

There's a second door in the office. Carol looks at Dad, he says _Oh, here, _and gives her the keys.

Another hall. This one is different, though. Less spooky. Probably because of the bright colors on the walls, colors that still pop even after so much time, even in the dark. And it's not as . . . _touched_ here. In fact, it's one of the least-touched places I've seen in a while.

We're all following Carol now. I stick close to my dad, for the benefit of his flashlight. He shines it through one open door, I see a couple of bunk beds. Through another door, a bathroom, clean.

Carol finally gets to a door she likes, a door that's already open, too. Dad, Owen, and me, we follow her through it.

This room. It's as neat as the rest of the place. There are four bunk beds pressed against the wall to my right. Directly across from each one of them is a window. There's a desk by the door, close enough that I could touch it. Its twin sits across the room. Both have books and pink lamps on them. And the covers on the beds? Pink, light blue, yellow – happy colors.

"What's this place?" Dad murmurs.

"It's temporary housing." There's no emotion in Carol's voice.

I walk across the room, scan each bunk bed, top to bottom. No walkers, no bodies. Just a couple of teddy bears. Each bed, it's made. Just waiting to be used.

This is creepy.

Temporary housing.

I turn back, and from this safe distance, ask Carol, "You came here?"

She unshoulders one of the bags she and Owen had all packed and ready when we found them. "We didn't stay."

_We._

The Walker Without a Doll plunges into my mind, and I rub my temple and duck my head, sending the thing back to its barn. And then I burn the barn down.

Here. Now.

Down with the bags, the weapons. Not where we can't reach them, no, never where we can't reach them.

I take the bottom bunk at the very end of the room. I check the thing over one more time, make sure there's no monster under my bed. I settle my bow next to the pillow, with an arrow latched on and ready to fly. And of course I keep my trigger strapped to my wrist.

Owen tosses his bag on the top bunk of the bed next to mine.

I grimace at him from where I sit, squeezing and releasing this surprisingly comfortable mattress. "Really?"

"What? Best seat in the house. Far from the door, vantage point . . ." He hauls himself up to the bed and sprawls out with an exaggerated sigh. "I would take the bunk above you, but that would just be weird."

He might have gotten a smile from me here, if not for those three questions and the answers that came from them. Now I just let my head fall.

Dad's got the bottom bunk on the bed closest to the door, Carol, the next bottom bunk, which is also the one next to the bottom bunk of the bed where Owen's got top. Owen, he's all alone up there.

"You three should sleep, I'll take first watch." Carol goes to the window. Dad half-crosses the room, slowly, rolling out of his vest.

"Place's locked up pretty tight."

"I know," she says.

My eyes lift to Owen. His head is turned to the side, so I guess he's watching them. Or maybe he's already asleep.

No, he never falls asleep that fast.

Dad tosses his vest onto my bed and tells Carol, "So we're good, then."

"I'll keep first watch. I don't mind."

"Suit yourself."

Dad puts a hand on the railing of my top bunk and lowers down next to me. "You g –" But he stops there.

Now that, that tugs a baby smile out. "You can say it when it's necessary."

"How'm I s'posed to know when it's necessary?"

I click my tongue. "If I come within . . . two feet of a walker."

"Four."

"Alright."

"And eight if there's two of 'em. Twelve if there's three . . . and so on."

"That's too much math. That was always my worst subject."

"Maybe. You still got straight A's on every report card ya ever got."

I was always so excited to show him my report cards. I could tell it made him happy, proud, to see how smart I was, even if he never made the big deal out of it that Mom and Nana and Papaw would. I could read him well enough to see.

"Not on every report card," I say. "I got a B in second grade. Science."

He snorts. "Yeah, forgot about that . . . You came home with me and cried for an hour."

"Well, I'd blown my chance at gettin' into a good college."

I see the corner of his mouth twitch. That's what keeps me from telling him that the reason I got a B was because I didn't let him or Mom know about a test I had one Monday because that Monday came after one of Dad's weekends.

Dad, he looks me over now, top to bottom and back. "You shouldn'ta followed me."

I roll my head back. "You gonna wear me out?" I ask, so dryly it makes his lips twitch again, and he shakes his head at the floor.

"Oughta. If you were ten again, I probably would." A couple seconds, and then, "Sometimes I wish you'd just stayed ten."

"If I had stayed ten," I say, "I would be dead by now."

His lips don't twitch that time. They weren't supposed to.

"So are you?" he asks.

"Good?"

A nod.

"Yeah."

A two-second-long hard-core stare at me to decide whether or not I'm telling the truth, then, "'Kay," and a kiss on my forehead. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah."

He leaves his vest behind. I watch him get to his bed, watch him watch Carol for a minute.

"That was nice," comes Owen's voice.

"Shut up."

A heavy sigh. "Did it ever occur to you," he says, "that maybe sometimes I mean what I say?"

I don't answer.

Dad lies down on his back. Folds his arms under his head.

Carol is standing at the window, stock-still, a gargoyle, like in _The Hunchback of Notre Dame. _Except, those gargoyles turned out to be pretty lively. That's not Carol, not right now. Maybe not ever again.

I wonder what it is. What it is that makes her not look right at me, that makes her so . . . flat, that made her go to the escape car when there was no need for escape.

She ended up with Tyreese and Judith, met up with them outside the prison after she'd seen the smoke from wherever she was. But what happened while they were out there?

She might be gone from me. Really, truly gone. That happens sometimes. Hell, I've already thought it's happened a few times. But . . . it never hurts less.

I pull Dad's vest to me. Feel the leather. Smell the sweat, blood, and smoke. It's kind of gross, I guess. I don't care.

A sound comes from outside the room. A _thump_. Carol whips around, Dad slides out from his bed, Owen pushes himself up, and I'm on my feet with my bow set to kill. Dad gets his crossbow, Carol gets her rifle, and I go to join them, but when I get there, Dad holds out a hand. "Stay here."

"But –"

"I mean it this time. Stay."

So I stay, and they go. Dad and Carol, I mean. Owen, he's behind me. And, when Dad and Carol's footsteps have faded, he says, "Good girl."

I whirl and shove him with my free hand, hitting his right shoulder. It sends him a half-step back, which is not as much as I was hoping for. "Stop trying to make trouble!" I snarl.

He lifts his chin. Kind of smiles. Takes the stance of a guy with all the answers, and I hate him.

"_You _stay here," I tell him, defying both my dad and logic. But when I reach the door and look back, Owen's still where he was. Still smiling at me like he knows all the things I don't. It's kind of a sad smile.

"Good boy," I say, and go.

I find Dad and Carol at a room labeled _7_, a room with two doors made with the foggy sort of glass, so all you can see through them is the shapes of people. Or things.

I stop in an archway behind Dad and Carol, hiding half of me behind it. Because they're talking, and I'm thinking I probably shouldn't have come, because what they're talking about, without using so many words, are the two things behind the doors of Room 7. One is a big thing. One is a little thing. And they both want out so they can tear anything with a beating heart all up.

"You don't have to," says Dad.

Carol reaches for the doorknob. Dad reaches for it, too, and stops her hand.

"You don't."

And this time, Carol listens. She listens, and she turns, and when she sees me – does she miss a step, just one? – she sighs and goes right on past.

Dad turned to watch her go, but found me here instead. His fingers curl up. I don't blink.

When he starts towards me, I brace myself, but he blows right past. "Don't know why I even bother with you."

And suddenly I'm part of the wall, not only stuck to it, but meant to be there, to stay forever with it, still and bloodless.

His footsteps stop. "That came out wrong."

Still and bloodless.

A touch on my shoulder, very light, but it gets hold and tugs. "C'mon. Let's just get to bed."

But I'm part of the wall. Being . . . _inanimate_, it's pretty nice.

"Little Bit."

Right, Daddy. Call me Little Bit, and everything will be okay.

I follow him back to our room. I don't look at Carol, I say nothing to Owen. I lie down on my bed, curl my legs into my chest, tuck my bow in next to me. I push Dad's vest onto the floor. Then I roll over and stare at the wall until my eyes can't bear it anymore and they close.

I don't know if I ever fall asleep, really. But I go into some sort of rest, and then I'm hearing voices, familiar voices, safe voices. But they pull me out of the sweet dark anyway.

"I don't think we get to save people anymore."

Carol.

"Then why're you here?"

Dad.

"I'm tryin'," says Carol, and she says it in a weird way, like it means something special.

"When we were out by the car," Dad says after a while, "What if I didn't show up?"

"I still don't know."

"You asked Owen to come with you out there . . ."

"It was a matter of time before he left. Even Sydney knew that. I thought I could give him a way that decreased the chance of him getting killed. And decreased the chance of me getting killed. He seems capable enough."

"He's just a kid."

"Yeah, well, _kid _doesn't always mean what it used to."

Quiet.

"What about my kid?"

"What about her?"

"She still one? A kid? 'Cause sometimes I wonder."

"I couldn't tell you that."

"Time was, you mighta been able to."

More quiet.

"Why're you freezing her out?" Dad's voice is soft.

"You don't want me to answer that."

"That were the case, I wouldn'ta asked."

And, eventually, Carol does answer him, and I think she answers him honestly. "Because if she is still a kid, a genuine kid, the odds are against her surviving long enough to grow up. This isn't a world for children anymore."

Quiet yet again. The heavy kind of quiet. All of it pressing on me, here in my bunk, trapped by the wall.

"Say that's true," Dad says. "Just hypothetically. You just ain't gonna care about her anymore? 'Cause she might die tomorrow? Any of us might die tomorrow."

"I know."

"But?"

"But you've never lost a child. You barely knew Sophia. Or Lizzie and Mika."

Lizzie and Mika. Carol adopted them, but then – the last time I saw them was at the prison –

All this time, and I've barely wondered about Lizzie and Mika. Or the other kids. Just Carl, Dad, Rick – the group that was always _my group. _But Lizzie and Mika – when Carol took them in, they _became_ my group. I should have wondered.

When Carol says she _lost _them . . .

"It's different, Daryl. From any other kind of loss."

"I know."

"No, you don't. And I hope you never do. But if it happens, if _something _happens . . . I can't go through it again."

Pause.

Dad says, "She loves you." Pause. "Might need you."

Pause.

"She needs a mother. I'm not a mother. Not anymore."

There's no more talking after that.

I know what I'll see if I look up at the next bunk, but that doesn't stop me from rolling over slowly, from stretching my neck, awkwardly and subtly, over my bow to peek. There he is, on his side, wide awake, watching me. No smile. No hint of his special bitter amusement. No fear, either.

Sorrow.

It's too real for me, and I roll back over and put my hands over my face and wait for dawn.


	18. Scream

**A.N.: I've put up a poll! My very first for this story. Check it out!**

**. . . . . . . . .**

I wake up to an empty room. Dad, Carol, Owen's beds – all slept in, all empty.

I'm up like a shot, and I fall. Well, almost. I catch myself on Owen's bed and then lower myself to sit on the bottom bunk, seeing stars, seeing stars . . . I lower my head, squeeze it between my hands.

Last time I ate . . . Yesterday, noon. A little squirrel, a few pecans.

I let one hand off my head so it can go inspect my ribs, just to make sure they're still jutting out so horribly. Good news. They are.

Up, you starving little thing. Up.

I get to my feet, steady myself there. I'm alright, once I do that – get steady the first time. My body's no stranger to deprivation, after all. It can run on just a little fuel.

I get my bow, my quiver. The bags are still here. Dad's crossbow and Carol's rifle are gone. I snap my trigger onto the string and move to the door. Stop three steps from it. Then I whistle, a simple two-pitch thing, low enough that a walker probably wouldn't care. Probably.

I don't get a whistle back from Dad. I don't get anything back from Dad. It's Owen's crackly morning voice that responds.

"Out here."

I relax. Sort of. I pad down the hall, checking the doors, until I come to a living room sort of area, and that's where I find Owen. He's sitting on a window seat, one leg tucked into him, one leg stretched out.

"Where're my dad and Carol?"

He jerks his head at the window. That's when I notice the smoke billowing up. I rush over and climb onto the window seat, supported by my knees, and I don't know what I expect to see, but what I see doesn't surprise me. Not really. Once I take it in and know for sure what it is, it fits in just right with our lives.

Dad and Carol are below, side-by-side, facing away from Owen and me. They're out in this courtyard sort of thing, but – no, it's not really a courtyard, it's more like this part of the building needed to be here and another part needed to be there and that slab of cement was just left over, good for dumpsters and cigarette breaks. But now it's for a funeral. I hate funerals.

I can see the two bodies, wrapped in something white, burning, melting together. One body is big. One body is little.

If Owen has questions, he doesn't ask them. He just sits with me on this window seat and we watch the fire burn and the smoke rise.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Got us a couple bags," Dad says, tossing one to me. "Just in case we find somethin' worth keepin'."

I examine the miniature backpack in my hand. Decent material, denim, or something like it, but . . . "It's purple." Bright purple, to be exact.

"Pretty sure that's the color of royalty, or somethin'. C'mon, beggars can't be choosers."

His own bag is a nice brown color, but I don't point that out. I just drop the bag on the window seat Owen and I spent so many silent minutes on and look around this room one more time. Between the four of us, I'd say we've swept the place pretty clean.

_But there's a bookcase over there, Sydney. And you haven't looked through it._

Am I still the reading girl?

My feet carry me over, so I guess they think I am.

It's a little bookcase, maybe three-and-a-half feet tall. I kneel down and run my finger along the spines, stealing their dust. No novels. A few children's books, but nothing for my age, or even for grownups. No, these are all self-help books.

_Breaking Down, Breaking Out: How I Finally Gained the Courage to Leave my Abusive Marriage._

_ Positive Coping Mechanisms._

_ Meditation and Why You Should Be Doing It._

_ Alcoholism: The Real Story._

_ Seeing Red: The Reasons You Self-Harm, and How to Stop._

_ Surviving Sexual Assault._

"Grab a couple, if you want."

Dad. How is it that he can still sneak up on me like this? And he's using his special gentle voice, which might mean he saw my fingers linger on a certain few of those books . . . but not that last one. I made sure no to let my finger linger there. But I should never, ever take privacy for granted, I know better.

Dad kind of shrugs. "Might be good to read up on some stuff . . ."

I stand. "I'd rather read novels." And I go back to my empty purple backpack, to the window seat where I can see the simmering remains from that fire, and I close my eyes and take a breath and when I open my eyes again, I make sure to keep them from drifting down to those remains, that pile of bone and ash and horror. I look up at the sky. The clouds. God's painting.

_Hey, God. That's pretty and all, but do you think you could take a quick break? Just to check in on us, see how we're doing? Maybe give us a hand?_

"That car was headed downtown." Dad's talking behind me, talking to all three of us, I guess, but I keep watching God paint. "I say we get up in one of the tall ones, get ourselves a view, see what we see."

"Stay close to the buildings, and keep quiet, but sooner or later . . . we're gonna be drawin' 'em." That's Carol. I wonder how she felt out there this morning, exactly, in front of the fire. I wonder if it was a feeling any softer than the feeling she sounds like right now. Like a teacher, talking history facts or special math formulas.

"Let's head out," says Dad.

I let Owen stay behind me again.

We navigate back through the building, our one-night safe haven. Through the office, down the hall – not so scary anymore – and over the still-shiny tile. Then out. Back to the real world.

. . . . . . . . . . .

My mother used to take me to Atlanta a few times a year. Sometimes because she had to make a trip for work anyway. Sometimes just to shop. But no matter what, we would go at Christmas. Atlanta, it was beautiful in Christmas. There was this one huge Christmas tree always in this one part of the city, I guess the most important part. But really, the tree was just one thing thrown in the mix, the awesome holiday mix. Lights would be all over, people would stand in front of stores wearing red hats and ringing bells, and there would be a Santa at every mall. Mom and Dad never did the whole Santa thing with me, but there used to be a picture, probably rotted somewhere now, with me smiling on a Santa's lap. Nana really wanted a picture like that. I didn't want to pose for it. I was scared of that Santa.

It's too early for Christmas, but Nana always complained that they put up the decorations too early _these days_. So, were the world how it used to be, this street we're on now would probably be littered with pieces of wreath and ribbon, instead of plain old trash. The broken, dirty windows would be intact and squeaky clean and have tiny reindeer and snowmen and awesome, awesome gifts on display. There would be lights, there would be garland. Lots of shoppers.

Instead, we have walkers.

We run along the side of a building. Pass a few abandoned, looted cars – that's old stuff now, just typical scenery. We get to the corner of the building and Dad stops. It's pretty clear on this side, but I can hear lots of walkers on the other. Dad peeks out at all that, and after a minute, says he sees a bridge connecting some building to some tall, tall other building. The kind of building we need to scope out Atlanta, I mean really scope it out.

Dad pulls a yellow notebook he took from the shelter out of his bag. Out comes his lighter, and he tries to set the notebook on fire.

The lighter sparks, but no dice.

Dad tries it again, holding the lighter right up against the paper – the lighter tries its best, makes that high-pitched scraping noise, but all it gives is another spark, and not a big enough one. I think it was actually smaller than the last. "Aw, you gotta be kiddin' me," Dad mutters.

A short whistle from behind me. Owen tosses Dad a lighter, which Dad snags from the air without even dropping his own. He looks from Owen's lighter to Owen himself, thinks about saying something. Owen blinks at him, slowly, calmly. But Dad ends up just lighting the notebook on fire without a word. It's not like he's never seen Owen smoking, anyway. Wonder if he cares.

The papers all go up in flames, and just when they're about to reach Dad's fingers, he rears back and flings it all out onto the street, a good ways away. I lean a little to look around Carol. Walkers are coming into view now, coming to investigate the bright new thing. Maybe it's something they can kill.

We wait, just a little, just a little. I'm not sure exactly where we're going with this, but Dad can see out to the street, he must have a plan. He's got to.

Unless this whole thing with Beth has his mind messed up.

No. Not Dad.

He begins to move, so we all do. Around the building, still sticking to the wall. A group of walkers have their backs to us, limping to the burning notebook.

Like I said – like I knew – Dad's got this figured out. There's a parking garage on this side of the building, and it only takes us a few fast strides to reach it. Now, when we get to the entrance, a walker's there to snarl at us, but Dad shoots it down easily. And we go in.

Our footsteps echo in here. It's not dark, there are plenty of places in the wall for the sun to shine through, but it's darker than it was outside, naturally, so that puts me a little on edge. We run through here, quiet as we can be. Dad and me are the best at it, being quiet. We don't see any more walkers, just a few lonely cars, and then Dad's leading the way into a door next to a big arrow painted on the wall that reads SKYBRIDGE.

Stairs, just a few sets. Two walkers together once, one walker alone a little later. I take out one of the first two. None of them are too scary. But walkers are almost never scary, when they're alone. Power in numbers, after all. Numbers either kill you or save you.

And then there's a door that also has _SKYBRIDGE_ written on it, and here we are, on the skybridge itself. And this is where things get weird.

It's a campsite. Seriously. It's like someone took everything we had in Atlanta – except for Dale's RV – and shoved it all onto this short little skybridge. Laundry hangs on lines hooked to the windows, extra clothes sit on the sill. There are sleeping bags, there are tents.

All of which are filled with walkers.

"God," I breathe.

The sleeping bags, they're the mummy kind, the kind for when it gets really cold. They're like cocoons, barely letting you move your arms. Dad had me try one of them when I was five or six, and I hated it, being all trapped like that. But I'm grateful for the damn things now, because the four sleeping-bagged walkers – all they can do is wiggle like worms.

Dad and Carol stab the couple nearest to us. While Dad rips open one of their sleeping bags, I shoot the third bagged walker, and Owen, he steps around Dad and me to get to the fourth. That one, its sleeping bag isn't even unzipped for the head to poke through. But it's writhing as hard as any of the others were. Owen watches the bag for a minute, then starts feeling around it with his boot, and, eventually,stomps down_. _There's that soft but loud crunching sound. The bag stops moving. Owen turns back around and I pretend I wasn't watching.

Dad's searching the walker he put down, looking for anything useful, but I guess it's useless. He stands up on his knees. For a second, he just stays there, watching the two tents move around. Hands reach out for us, but we're protected by a thin film that could be opened with a dull knife, a pull of a zipper. But walkers are dumb. And they're trapped in there, because of their own stupidity.

I hate them. But I feel sorry for them, too. Or, for the people they used to be.

My dad gets up. "Some days I don't know what the hell to think."

We don't put down the walkers in the tents. We leave them be. One of them tips down as we slide past, but it gets back up quickly, its guests starving. I glance out the window, at the city, scorched, torn, and broken by the bombs. On a building across the street, there's a tarp with the word _HELP _hanging from two windows.

The door at the end of the hall is actually a double-door set. Chained together, because that's just our luck. But, really, it's not that bad, because the chains are loose enough that the doors open enough for us to slip through. Well, Carol and me slip through, though she has to slide her rifle and bag through first. Owen has a little more trouble, and Dad has the most, but we all make it out of the skybridge and away from its campers.

More stairs. No walkers this time, even though we cover more ground. Walkers, they don't get too high too often. Unless they were people who died up high. But no, not here, not on this particular stairwell. We got lucky.

When Dad decides we're high up enough, it's after I don't know how many sets of stairs – enough to make my legs burn and my head kind of swim. We find ourselves in an office kind of place. It looks very much like my mother's firm looked, only fancier. The floor is a cool wooden design, the walls are white and scattered with paintings of things I can't really see, things with lots of color and maybe no shape at all. Heavy doors line the hall, and we turn a corner and heavy doors line this hall, too, but one – well, it's another double-door set, so I guess two – is heavier than all the rest. Dad pushes them open.

Office of a rich guy. I pick that much up right off. Clean green carpet, fancy chairs tucked in an alcove, with a lamp carved into a shape of a fancy-looking man sitting on a table in between them. A gigantic desk, which my dad walks behind. He picks something up and examines it, and oh, how out of place he looks here. Almost makes me want to laugh.

The wall past the desk is mostly glass. And God, we're high up here. Got just the view we were looking for. Dad and Carol step up to the middle of all that glass, and I hear her whisper something, but then there's a shuffling behind me and I turn to see Owen raiding a coat rack. He catches my eyes on him and waves a white hat. I can't remember the name of this kind of hat, but I've seen it before, mostly in old movies – it's like a cowboy hat, but with a much shorter brim. "I'm tempted," Owen says.

And I hear myself say, "Go for it."

He half-smiles – genuine, how rare a sight – and flips the hat onto his head. I pull my lips into my mouth and hold up a hand, blocking most of his body from my line of sight. "Neck up, you almost look not hideous."

"That's the single nicest thing you've ever said to me." His expression is dead serious, and out comes my smile.

But damn him. Damn him for never letting me know if he wants to be my friend or not. Damn him for giving me a spark of happiness when we both know, if anything, that we need to distance ourselves from each other.

Because he's leaving. Maybe after we come across a working car somewhere in the city. Maybe after he helps us get Beth. Maybe after we make it back to the church. But he's leaving. At some point. And that's what matters.

I think we remember this at the same time. Our smiles fade at the same time, that's for sure. He puts the hat back on the rack, and I readjust my bow and head over to Dad and Carol.

Before I can get around the desk, I hear her. And how she sounds – it makes me stop. That's how bad it is. Not outright, not breaking down. But under the surface, her surface – something awful.

"You still haven't asked me about what happened. After I met up with Tyreese . . . the girls."

The girls.

Oh my God.

It doesn't matter, suddenly, how awful she is under the surface. Maybe because I'm awful under the surface, too. "Lizzie and Mika?" I blurt.

Both of them turn, these grownups in charge. Their faces are dark, left in shadow, the sun abandoned behind them as the much as the city was two years ago. I stare at Carol. She stares back, mouth kind of open, then not. She blinks three times, takes a breath, does she have something to say?

I can't wait that long.

"You were with Lizzie and Mika?"

If she was with them, and they aren't here now – it means she probably watched them die. Or saw them dead. Maybe even saw them turn.

Like the Walker Without a Doll, stumbling from the barn.

"Sydney." Dad. "Don't."

He means it. Not in a harsh way, not in a _You'd best watch it, kid_, way – in a _Trust me _way. Trust him. Trust him about what? About – about Carol not being able to handle it if I push this further, if I ask her what happened to them? These kids I knew? These kids that belonged to us?

"They were my friends."

"No, they weren't," mutters Carol, matter-of-fact. She's turned back to the window. "One of the last interactions you and Lizzie ever had was a fist-fight, and I can't remember you ever even talking to Mika."

It's like she hit me. Really rammed me with her best shot. Not even because of what she said. How she said it. So cold, so . . . and the fact that she said it at all . . .

God, maybe she really doesn't give a shit about me anymore. So much that she's blocked out who I am. Who she knows – used to know – I am.

"The last thing I ever said to Lizzie," I say, "Was that I forgave her for calling my uncle a killer. No, sorry, it was – it was admitting to her that I already knew that."

Dad starts to say my name, doesn't get it all the way out.

"And Mika? She had a guinea pig named Stormy, before the turn. She liked science, she liked reading, and she adored Judith and all the other little kids. Her favorite movie was _The Lion King. _She couldn't play sports worth a damn. That's one of the reasons I liked her."

"Stop," says Carol.

"And she had this weird relationship with Lizzie. I mean, Mika was the younger sister, but she would get kind of . . . I don't know, protective –"

"Stop! You've made your point!"

She shouted. It's free game now. "Then tell me what happened!"

Okay, Sydney, we're gonna go there? Really?

"Maybe they weren't my _friends, _but they were part of our group! That _means _something – or do you remember that?"

"That's _enough_!"

Dad, yelling. Siding. With her. She hasn't turned around. I wonder what her face looks like. Dad's looks mean. No, not mean. Not really. Stern? That's closer. Afraid? Maybe a bit. My dad, afraid. There was a time I didn't think that was possible, oh, what a long time ago that was.

"She don't wanna tell you," Dad tells me, "She don't gotta tell you."

"That's just – that's just fantastic." I laugh a little. Like Owen would. "Yeah . . . Don't tell Sydney how Tyler died. Don't tell Sydney how Lizzie died, how Mika died. Why does she deserve to know?"

Dad's gotten around the desk by then. He reaches for me. He gets my shoulder, but I shove his arm away and dart back, almost tripping. "Don't touch me." I can't get my breath, not quite, but his fingers burned.

And his face – still stern? No. I don't know what this look is. It's just another serious expression created special for a world full of death and sorrow and danger. "Let's you and me go for a walk."

"No."

"I ain't askin'."

"Then I guess I ain't listenin'."

He steps towards me. "Girl, you listen to me –"

A tall figure comes between us. "What're you gonna do, make her talk? She ain't gonna say anything she don't want to by her own free will, that's for damn sure. So leave her alone."

Oh, Owen.

Finally, my dad has gone all the way and looks flat-out mean. At least it ain't at me. "What you just say?"

"Leave her alone." Simple as that, Dad, didn't you hear him the first time?

A step closer. "I'm her damn _father_, boy."

Look at me, with my arms crossed like this. Defensive position. What do I think is going to happen? Do I think this might end bad? Oh, no. There's no chance of that. It's just Dad and Owen, facing off. What could possibly go wrong?

"Yeah," Owen says, smooth as silk, "And what a great one you've been these past few months."

Once, on a rooftop, Dad got up in Bob's face until Bob shied away like a beaten dog. Dad does that to Owen now. Now, Owen's a few inches shorter than Dad. A lot lighter, even if he is muscular for his age. But Owen doesn't move back a hair. Owen doesn't flinch. Owen stands nose-to-nose with my dad, like a man.

Carol's watching from the window. She's tense. No heartbreak now, no, now it's all adrenaline, and she knows what I know, that this could spiral down so fast and crash, burn, _boom_. Should we step in now? Could we? I wait for her eyes to meet mine so we can figure it out together, but that's a waste of my time, and then Dad's talking. Half-yelling.

"Who the _hell_ you think you are?"

Owen's teeth flash. They come out of nowhere, and not for a smile. He bares them, a wild dog. "I think I'm the guy who saved your daughter from walkers a hundred times, from a rapist at least twice, and from her damn _self_ every single day while you were off somewhere – doin' what, exactly?"

That final part, it kind of gets slurred, because just as Owen says it my dad grabs him by the collar of his jacket and slams him against the glass.

I shouted _Dad_. Carol shouted _Daryl_. She took a step closer. I pulled my bow from my shoulder.

Owen has his chin up. Ready.

Silence. Silence.

Then, "Rapist?"

The coldest chill runs through me. Freezes my eyes open. Freezes all of me, a statue, here I am. Break me.

Dad lets go of Owen, his fingers snapping off of the jacket collar, straight as arrows. His arms fall like sacks of sand. Then, then, he looks at me. Oh. "Rapist?" He sounds like he hasn't had anything to drink in a year. He looks like it, too. Dried up. Desperate. It's happened just that fast. Because of just one word.

Owen. Sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, eyes tired and on me and –

"Sorry."

Little shakes of my head. To get all the ice off.

_You little bitch._

"Sydney?"

Dad. Begging. Dad never begs.

Am I thawed? My foot moves. Good foot. My legs, I swear, they're the best part of me. They always know what's going on. Come on, body. The rest of you, come on. Get in the game.

I spin. Something falls. My bow. Now my bag. Doesn't matter. As a matter of fact, it makes it easier for me to shove my hands into my hair and push them so my head, my brain is all squeezed, it feels very full now, my brain, but maybe I can pop it like a grape, force some stuff out.

I'm through the double doors, legs, ah, moving fast, God love them. My name chases me. I outrun it.

Safety, safety, where is safety? All I really know is that somewhere, maybe anywhere, that is not _that room_ will be better, yes, away from _them_ will be better, away from _those words_ and the glass that shows the ruins of the city and the coat rack with the _fedora _– yes, that's the word! – and the dad who shoved the boy against the glass and the woman who used to be a mother but now isn't and the man with the beard and the wild eyes who threw my body around like it belonged to him.

This door is locked, that door is locked, why would people have locked these doors? Ridiculous!

Turn a corner, look, another wall mostly of glass, and a new hall, I stride down it, hands still in my hair, I rake them down –

_Scream, bitch. _

_ The young ones make the best noises!_

_ Scream and I'll kill you and I'll kill your daddy, I swear to God._

"Shut up, shut up . . ."

No walls, no broken city. Just a hall, a hall with white walls, and I'm alone. You're alone, Sydney. Breathe. Carl's kiss, Judith's little fingers, Glenn conflicted – beautiful things, things you have –

_You and me, we're gonna have some fun now._

I take fistfuls of my hair and pull and I can't get enough air, _I can't, _and I hear him, I hear him so well, and I know why when I raise my eyes from the wooden floor with the pretty design and see him standing by a water cooler, grinning.

"Ever had a man inside you, little girl?"

I stop, stumble, stare. "No. No, you're not here." I point at him, so he knows I'm serious. So I know I'm serious. "You're not here –" I whirl and I'm in his arms, trapped, because he _is_ here and I don't know where _here_ is but it's with _him_ and he is going to do things to me that will make me want to kill myself, so – _"No! Let go of me!"_ I ram my fists into his gut, as hard as I can, he laughs that laugh that makes me want to rip out his throat, he picks me up off the ground, I hit and kick, I'm dropped –

_ Fight or flight, Sydney Rose –_

I scramble away on the rocking floor until my back's against the wall, stand, you idiot, get on your feet and _fight_, but when I get on my feet, all the fight I have in me can do is screech, "Get the hell away from me! You son of a bitch!" Then, of course, _he_ must be around, and he has to have forgiven me, so –

"_Rick! Rick –!"_

"Claimed!"

The floor is suddenly stable. Kitchen floor. Boiled water? Right? Or – grass? Ground? Dark night? I roll my eyes around in my head, everything – everything is everything.

"Claimed . . ."

The voice is close. It's not a bad voice. Owen. That's Owen. Tyler's brother, my Tyler, my Owen. My Owen? What the hell?

I feel behind me and find something smooth to grip. I let it hold some of my weight. Stable ground. No, floor. It's a floor.

"You're safe, Sydney. They can't touch you. Len can't."

"Len . . ."

"He can't touch you. He can't hurt you. He can't do a damn thing to you. _Claimed_."

"You . . ."

"Yeah."

"I . . . I don't . . ."

"Len isn't here, Sydney. Len is gone."

Then it comes back to me, like a cloud, floating in at its own pace. A knife through an eye. Blood on my hands, shining. I remember. "Len's dead."

"That's right. Sydney. Look at me."

I do. I see soft brown eyes. The color of chocolate, the color of Mom's hair. Owen, Owen, Owen Wells. Crouched, three feet away, one hand back, one hand kind of out, palm up.

"Look where you are."

I'm in a white hall and there are strange paintings on the wall, but I like the design of the floor. Dad and Carol are here. We're in a tall building . . . yes, that's right. We're looking for Beth. We're in Atlanta, where Mom used to bring me, especially for Christmas. It's ruined now, but it's Atlanta. And there's no Len here. Len's dead. And the smooth thing holding me up is a windowsill.

Owen gets closer. Closer. Do I trust him? Yes. He touches my arm. He touches my other arm. My hand goes to his shoulder and he's steadier than the windowsill, so my other hand goes to his chest and I feel around until I get to the _thump-thump, thump-thump._

I don't know if he pulls me in or if I fall in. I just know that we get to where he's holding me. "You're okay," he says softly, hand open on my back. "You're okay."

And, for just that moment, I believe him.

"Claimed," I breathe.

"Claimed."


	19. Seven Years Old

_Sometimes I think nobody but me knows how thin the walls of this house really are. _

_ "Where's he live?" says Dad, _shouts _Dad, and Mom answers much more quietly – maybe she _does_ know how thin the walls are. No, no, because she was yelling a minute ago, too. Saying bad words, bad words that Uncle Merle says a lot but that I'm not allowed to say._

_ I'm in my room, on my bed. _

_ "Leah, I swear to God –"_

_ "What're you gonna do, Daryl, you gonna kill him?"_

_ Then one of Daddy's long, growling sounds. Like a yell, with closed teeth. One of the worst sounds I ever hear him make._

_ I'm sitting cross-legged. My fingers start moving across my knees._

_ Mom says something after a minute. Something like _Forget it, _I think. _

_ "Why? So you can keep invitin' him back over here, let him do shit like this to ya some more?"_

_ Mom whispering._

_ "You 'spect me to believe that?"_

_ My fingers start going faster, start moving from my knees and along my bedspread. "Nocturne," Billy Joel. My teacher Ms. Rosen knows every piano song and can teach me any of them, too, and so Mom asked her to teach me some Billy Joel, Mom's favorite, so that's what I'm learning now. Nocturne. The word, it means something about night. Dark. Dark like how it is outside? Or dark like how it feels inside, inside of me?_

_ My fingers play it out, still a little clumsy, still learning. I want to play our real piano, want to hear the music, but the piano's in the living room, and it's war in there right now._

_ "I know how this works!" Dad yells. "You say it's all done and over, he comes knockin' on your door, swears it'll never happen again, and you let him back in and pretend everything's just fine!"_

_ "Oh, yeah, sounds like me, doesn't it?"_

_ "I'm sure as hell beginnin' to think so!"_

_ "Damn you, Daryl, I'm not your –"_

_ When two people suddenly go quiet in the middle of an angry moment, it's never good. I wonder if I'm still going home with Dad after this. It's his weekend. This is Saturday, he had to come a day late, but it's still his weekend. These fingers will pull triggers instead of pushing keys. Or pretending to push keys._

_ One of them needs to start talking. Or just end things right here and go on._

_ I hear Mom. Then Dad. He says my name, I catch that much. Mom says some more, she's back to whispering. Then Dad says something, louder. Then Mom says something louder, too. No more whispering, no, it's starting again –_

_ ". . . hide this from me?" snaps Dad._

_ "It's my life, Daryl!"_

_ "And that's my kid in that room!" _

_ "I just told you, he's not coming back! He's never getting near her again!"_

_ "You just – You shoulda told me, Leah! You shoulda called me and told me the second he did it!"_

_ "So you could do something that would put you in prison? So you could see Sydney even less? What would have been the point?"_

_ "Keepin' you safe! Keepin' her safe!"_

_ "Sydney _is _safe!"_

_ "Tell that to your black eye!"_

_ Faster, fingers, faster. Things feel better when they move faster, and I'm not being so clumsy now, no, the music's flowing. Flowing. Or getting there._

_ Bad quiet, then Mom talking in a normal tone. I catch the words _back again. _And maybe _never, _before that. I hope so. Like she said a minute ago – not coming back, never getting near me again . . . never again, Shawn. Never come back again. _

_ Dad'll kill you if you do._

_ Dad speaks low. The one word I hear, crystal clear? _Kill.

_ Mom laughs in a bad way. Says something in a bad way, bad like sad, not angry._

_ Dad answers, sounding kind of like her. Just tired, I guess, that might be a good way of explaining it._

_ I hear them go into the kitchen. Not much talking now, just a few mutters. Clinking glass. Drinks. They have drinks together a lot. Dad'll have just one, because he's driving me to his place. Mom, I don't know. Sometimes she just has one. Sometimes she has more. Wonder if Dad knows about that._

_ Me, I play _Nocturne. _I hear it. Hear it like Billy Joel plays it on Mom's record, and I know my fingers can't draw out those sounds for real yet, I know that, but someday they will._

_ Then Dad, from the living room. "Sydney! C'mon, we got some huntin' to do . . ." _

_My fingers fall from my pretend piano, stop making Billy Joel music that I can't even make real yet, even though I will, I will . . . and maybe, maybe I'll let Dad hear me then._

_ But for now I just grab my bag from the floor and leave_ Nocturne _behind. Because with Dad, I'm Sydney Rose, hunter, tomboy, Little Bit, his tough girl. Not the girl who sits on a bed playing pretend piano. He doesn't know that girl. He doesn't know that me._


	20. Ruins

I'm sitting on a hard desk, looking out at a broken, burned-out shell of a city, holding a canteen of old water instead of something to warm my hands and my insides. Probably for the best. Having that sort of warmth while looking out at all of the cold would be like cheating.

I doubt it would have warmed me up much, anyway, a cup of cocoa or coffee or tea. Not the way it counts.

Dad is sitting in one of the fancy chairs to my left, in the alcove of the room. His forehead's resting on the butt of his crossbow, which he's planted in the carpet like a crutch. He hasn't said anything, not since Carol took Owen to search out the rest of this place. I haven't said anything, either. Just been sitting here, sipping my water, resting. Recharging. Searching for somewhere stable inside of my head.

There probably aren't too many places left.

Look at that city. Ruins, now. Like from an ancient people, long dead.

_Claimed._

Owen. Owen was the one who grabbed me and guided me back down to reality and then held me there. Literally, he held me. And I didn't mind. Hell, I needed it – I hate that, but I know it. Owen was the one who led me back to this room. Who made me sit down and breathe. Who gave me water.

If someone asked me where Dad and Carol were during that time, I wouldn't be able to answer. I know they were there. I felt them, I guess. Or _can_ feel them, thinking back, now that my head's clearing up. They just . . . didn't matter. Not then, not to the demons in me. Owen was what mattered.

Owen.

"How far did he get?"

Dad.

And so it begins.

I lift the canteen to my lips, and right before I sip, say, "Not far." The water goes down as easy as air. I miss ice – so cold, I complain about the cold, and yet I miss ice. Look out at the city, Sydney Rose. See how cold it is out there?

"Did he . . ." Dad stops. No details. Probably doesn't want me to start screaming and running again. But I don't think that's going to happen. I feel . . . I don't even know how I feel. Just tired, mostly. But not so much scared.

"He didn't get far," I say. "Owen jumped in both times. Before things got bad."

With a word, with an arrow, he jumped in and saved me. Why? Why save me, why come with me, why try to leave?

_Why was he the only one there who cared?_

I haven't looked at Dad, not full-on, but he's in the corner of my eye. His head is up. I see his hand rise and fall, hear the little smacks as he taps or slaps or whatever on his crossbow. His next words begin with a growl, or, maybe, a sigh. A growl-sigh. There should be a word for that. "You shoulda never left that house when Rick was still in it. Shoulda stayed put."

I consider that, sipping my water, then I _do_ look at him full-on. "Sorry. If I'd known getting pinned down by a dirty strange man would upset you so much –"

"Stop." His head falls onto the butt of his crossbow again. He rubs his forehead against it. "Stop. That was dumb of me to say."

I'm holding up better than he is. Strange but true. Dad's voice, it's all low and hoarse, but I keep hearing the tiniest crackling noises hidden inside of it, too, and I know what those mean. But I've been in on this secret for a lot longer, I guess. He needs time to adjust to the idea that his daughter was almost raped. I imagine it's a tough thing to come to terms with when you love your little girl so much. More than anything.

"I woulda killed him," Dad tells the floor. "If I'd known, I'da done whatever it took to kill that sonbitch . . ."

He jumps up, slinging his crossbow up with him, and begins pacing the room. I don't turn to watch where he goes, I just listen to him going back and forth behind me, and say, "That's why I didn't tell you."

"Yeah, well, you shoulda told me. He needed killed."

"He _got_ killed."

I felt his blood pour out onto my hands, over my fingers and Len's own knife. Warm, wet, then sticky.

_Scream, bitch._

I shut my eyes, kind of twist my head. Where am I? In an office, with my dad. Up high. Safe. Len is dead. And I'm claimed. By Owen Wells. God, he'll never let me live this down. Owen . . . he's with Carol. He's close. Here. Claimed.

Keep talking, Sydney. Act normal.

_Act? You are normal. Just fine._

"And we stayed in the group as long as we needed to," I say. "I made the right call."

"Wasn't your call to make!"

I twist, find him halfway across the room. "The hell it wasn't."

He stops. Stares. I stare back. I don't feel . . . afraid? Not the right word. Intimidated. I don't feel intimidated by him. Like I said – I'm mostly tired. Gotta get past that. Not an option to be tired right now. Gotta be tough. That's me, the tough girl. Dad's tough girl.

Dad asks, still pinning me with his eyes, nearly desperate – my dad, desperate? – eyes, "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Not supposed to lie to Daddy. "Probably not."

His shoulders lower a centimeter, I swear. I hear the smallest of sighs slip from his lips before he asks – sounding as exhausted as me – "Why?"

"There wouldn't have been a point."

"I'm your _father_, Sydney."

"What does that have to do with it?"

He stretches his arms out, kind of shrugs, like it should be obvious. But I cut him off, calm, before he can tell me _why_ it's so obvious. Because he'll be wrong. Whatever he says, he'll be wrong.

"Len attacked me. I killed Len. You weren't there for any of it. You never needed to _know_ any of it."

"Oh, but Owen knows? Some kid you ain't even sure you like?"

"Owen knows because he got Len off of me. _Both_ times. Like I said." I let my body ease back into a normal sitting position, so I can see the dead city again.

. . . . .

"_Claimed!"_

"_Aw, you gotta be kiddin' me . . ."_

_. . . . ._

"He claimed me, that first time. That's why . . ."

I don't have to say it. You know, don't you, Dad? Owen claimed me, and that's why he was able to tap into my head and set it back on track. That's why, that's why. He knew the secret password. And you didn't, Dad. You didn't know what to do with me.

"So him declarin' you his property? That's what calms you down, huh?"

"Would you rather him have let Len have me back in that house? Would you rather I have kept on with my breakdown out there?"

That's what it was, no point in denying it. A breakdown, a breakdown . . . like seeing Merle at the prison, and Dale at the garage, and those fingers in my bag the day the Governor ruined everything, and Merle again, at the stream, trying to play nice . . .

Breakdowns, all of them. Even hiding away at the prison and slicing, burning myself up. I heard things, didn't I? My imagination, or my mind crumbling away, bit by bit? Is that why I am like I am now?

Am I crazy? When do you know – when do you know that you really are crazy?

Owen. _Claimed_.

"He's the reason I'm still here," I drop my voice again, relaxed, easy, mature. Thinking, but thinking about the right things, the real things. "If anything, I would have thought you'd be grateful."

A few seconds, then, "You know I am," all soft and . . . gentle. Special gentle voice. I can still remember when that voice made everything okay.

You know what? This isn't the time or place. Not for memories, not for heartfelt talks. More important things to worry about. Get on it, Sydney Rose . . .

I screw on the lid of the canteen. "We need to get going. We need to find Beth."

No immediate answer, but then, "I'm takin' you back to the church."

"No."

"'Scuse me?"

I put the canteen aside. I've prepared for this. "You'd have to find a car. You'd have to drive me back. You or Carol or Owen."

Listen to me. Cool as a cucumber.

"You won't send me with Carol," I tell Atlanta, "because she's as valuable here as you are. You won't send me with Owen, because you don't trust him enough. Overall, trying to figure all that out would be a big waste of time, time we could be using to save Beth. If she's still alive. Maybe you could set up camp for me somewhere, maybe here, but we both know I'd follow you. It's a given by now. Can't leave me with Carol. Can't leave me with Owen. Won't stay with me yourself, because you're the tracker here. If anyone can find Beth, it's you, and we both know it." And now, because it feels like the most important thing I've done in a long time, I turn and find his eyes and say, "You or me."

I've done it. Stumped my dad. His mouth's kind of open, his eyebrows are pushed together. And all I'm doing is being honest. And really, really, it feels good. All these lies, shoved inside me – must get pretty cramped.

"I can track, too, Dad," I remind him, almost whispering. "Got pretty damn good at it while I was with Joe's group. He said I was one of the best he's ever seen . . . and only twelve years old."

A long time. I mean, probably not more than five seconds, but it feels longer. And it's the heavy kind of long time, the heavy kind of silence.

But we don't. Have. The time. We don't have the time for the heavy kind of long times. Or the silences. "What?" I say after I've had enough of him standing there, eyes going from my feet to my head, kind of squinting. Eyebrows still together. Mouth closed, though. Thinking, thinking.

But all he says is, "Nothin'."

And it sure as hell isn't nothing, and we both know it. But neither of us says it. Because there are more important things right now.

Or because we just don't bother with talking about shit that matters anymore. Maybe I just ruined any hope we had, when I went ballistic in a strange place and could only be calmed by my childhood bully, not my father. Or maybe, really, the hope was ruined when I saw him on that road, or later, at least, when I realized what he had looked like. Maybe the hope was ruined sometime before that, even, when my dad was without me. When I was without him.

Or. Maybe there are just more important things right now.

I look back to the windows. So tired. Me and you both, Atlanta.

But when my eyes catch what they catch, I perk up instantly.

"Where's the rifle?" I say.

"With Carol . . . Why?"

Dad hasn't perked up. Dad and me. A team, remember those days? Remember when it was for real, maybe – maybe a year ago? Before the Governor, before Merle? Before LC and before Joe, Len, and Owen? Remember, Dad?

Right now. More important things right now. Like . . .

"I think I see somethin'."

I jump down from the desk, move to the window, right up to it. Is it . . . ? Yes. And Dad's next to me now, so I point for him, my fingertip going flat against the glass, the cool glass . "There. White van, white crosses on the back windows." Hanging off the edge of a bridge, looks like, but it's way, way far away, so I could be wrong. But, then, knowing our luck, it's probably hanging off the edge of a bridge. "Could use the rifle's scope."

Does he nod? Probably. I don't check. "Alright . . . wait here. I'll go get 'em." And he goes, and I listen to him go, and then he stops, and I listen to him say, "I'm sorry I wasn't there. None of it woulda happened . . . I'da kept you safe."

He does sound sorry. He sounds really sorry. Secret's out, and I was right – no point to it.

Not for him, at least.

"Well, you weren't there," I say. "Things happened how they happened. I'm alive, so I guess I kept safe enough. Nothin' either of us can do about it now." I turn, tilt my head at him. "Are you going to get the scope? We have to find Beth. We love her. So we have to find her."

And that's it. That's what does it. The straw that breaks the camel's back, you could say.

I see it in Dad's eyes. The shift. Something giving. And – oh – horror dripping out. He does his best to hide it, but I see.

Did I want this to happen?

I pushed too hard. I pushed just enough.

One less secret. It feels good.

Seeing that horror he's fighting, it feels good, too. God help me.

Oh, God help me.

Where do we go from here, Sydney Rose?

To find Beth, that's where.

Because we love her.

We look for the people we love.

"Dad," I say. "The rifle?"

His face is like I've never seen it before. Like water, a million tons of water, hiding under a thin sheet of ice. And the water wants through so bad. And you can see it moving, swirling, only a matter of time before it comes crashing through.

And then Dad rubs his jaw and spins and gets out, maybe before the ice can crack.

Me, I turn back to the window and look out over Atlanta.


	21. Issues with Gratitude

The rifle's scope blows up what I saw so it's even clearer, that white van with its front hanging off – yes, I was right about that – with its front hanging off a bridge. It's definitely some kind of lead, says Dad, and soon enough, the decision is made. We're going.

I keep my eyes out the window the whole time this decision is being made. It's a decision, really, reached by Dad and Carol and no one else. Us kids, we don't chime in. Would it matter if we did? Maybe a little. Not much.

Anyway, we do need to go check out the van, that's obvious.

As for what happened with me, running around the floor screaming at nothing, that's not mentioned. Well, not directly. But there is this one piece of conversation:

"Let's head down there." Dad.

"All of us?" Carol.

"Yep." Dad.

I'm only guessing that, somewhere in there, a little question passed between them, a little confirmation. I don't blame them. Not for that.

Maybe not for anything, maybe it's all on me.

_No. Not everything is your fault. _

We leave down the same staircase we took to get up here, to this floor of nightmares. We exit into the hallway that leads to the skywalk and all its happy campers.

Owen walks next to me the whole time, and the air between us is thick but fragile all at once.

You know your life's gone off the rails when you find yourself putting so much trust in a guy who pulled your hair when you were a kid, killed five people in the past two years, and has more secrets than an old-time spy. Who won't tell you a thing about his dead brother, your old best friend. But, right now, and maybe for just right now, I feel like I can depend on Owen . . . more than Carol. More than Dad.

_That's crazy._

Owen, he brought me back down when I was up high, the bad kind of high – in the clouds during a storm. He knew what to do and he did it and he saved me, from – complete insanity? A terrible showdown of some sort with Dad, or Carol, or both? From killing myself?

_Accidentally killing yourself or . . . ?_

He saved me from something bad.

But thing is, my little breakdown – it didn't have to happen. And it _wouldn't _have happened if Owen hadn't said _the_ word, said it right to my father, spat it out like tainted meat.

_Rapist._

I glance over at him, with just my eyes and the slightest turn of my head. His chin's up high, his stride is loose. No problems in the world, right?

_There's no part of him that isn't made up. _

That's not true, that's not true. He's shown me real parts of who he is. Raw parts, even . . . That night outside the church with the questions and the wine. Talking over Len's body. When he was on the ground, bloody and looking up at Joe. And _Claimed. _

Yes, _Claimed _was real.

But I know enough real parts of Owen to know that nothing about Owen is simple. Not the things he's made up, not the things he hasn't. He won't let any of it be simple.

And he's smart. He's very, very smart. And of all the things he could have said to my dad about how he protected me while we were with Joe's group – he chose to bring up Len. He could have said that he always made sure I had food, or that he slept beside me every night, or that he – on the rarest, rarest occasions – made me forget the hell I was in long enough to get me to crack a smile.

But no. Owen. Brought. Up. Len.

And I'm ninety-nine percent sure that's not the kind of thing that would just slip out of his smart mouth.

So, basically, the person I trust more than anyone else around – I'm pissed as hell at him. Because the person I trust more than anyone else around shared a secret that _was not his to share._

_Claimed, _he shouted, to save me. But that cleaned up his own mistake, didn't it?

He's lucky his only competition is a dad and an almost-mom who both abandoned me.

I owe him. But he owes me. God, I'm like Glenn – conflicted. Only I'm not feeling nearly as lighthearted as I know Glenn was when he said that. Me, I'm heavy, in heart, body, mind. But that can't slow me down. Because Beth. We have to find Beth.

Because we find people we love, right, Daddy?

Dad and Carol mutter something ahead of Owen and me, grownup talking. They turn a corner, Owen and I turn the same corner three steps later. And here they are, the chained double-doors, and the moans from the dead campers warn us to enter at our own risk. More muttering, more grownup talk, then Dad holds the doors apart for Carol, and she slides the rifle and one of the bags into the hall before sliding herself through, too. Last time, I went right after her, but now it would be even worse to be in a room alone with her even for just two seconds, so I turn fast when Dad looks at me and blurt out at Owen, "Did Tyler turn?"

The skin around his eyes stiffens. His head tilts back just a tiny bit. "Christ, how random can you be?"

"Sydney," I hear Dad say, in his special gentle voice. "Ain't the time."

I swallow, glance over my shoulder. I widen my eyes . . . like a puppy. I used to do that with him a lot. It usually worked. "Could you go first, please? Two seconds. I'll be through right after you, promise."

I see his jaw set right before I twist back to Owen. But I hear the clanking of chains behind me, so pretending I'm a puppy . . . well, guess I still got it. But that's not important right now.

"You said he died slowly," I whisper to Owen. "Now, I don't know what the hell you meant by that, and I know you think you're not gonna tell me how he died, but I need to know if he turned. I need to at least know that."

And saying it – it makes me realize it's true. I do need to know. God . . . I brought this up to give me an excuse not to crawl through after Carol, because I'm a self-centered little bitch. But whether or not Tyler turned – that _matters_. I mean, Tyler? With his sweet, shy smile, and his superhero T-shirts? Dead . . . fine. But the walking kind of dead? I can't even picture that. The closest I get is seeing the Walker Without a Doll, and the idea of Tyler like that makes my chest suck together in an awful ball, with fear and sadness and anger, anger, _anger_.

And Tyler's older brother, the person I trust – more than some, at least, and God knows reluctantly – licks his lips and opens them, and he gets one or two words out but they're whispered and so they're drowned by the shout from the other side of the double doors.

"Daryl, don't!"

It's not the words that make the ball of crap in my chest explode into fight-or-flight, instinct-not-thought adrenaline of an animal made to survive. It's the tone Carol used when she said them. It's the tone that rips my eyes from Owen's and brings them to Dad, on his knees with his head and one arm through the double-doors, out of sight, and right after I take that picture in, I hear a sound as familiar as Carl's heartbeat and Judith's cry – a gun being cocked.

And now, now my trigger is snapped onto my bowstring, and I'm hearing a stranger snap "Get up! Hands up . . . Both of you . . ." as I'm moving forward, but – naturally, naturally – my knight in shining goddamn armor grabs my arm and pulls me over next to the doors, even as my dad disappears completely through them. I rip myself from Owen and almost do – something. But Owen, standing between me and the doors, presses my shoulder into the wall and shows me the palm of his hand. _Wait._

"Owen –"

"He doesn't know we're here." He's whispering straight into my ear, and I want to hit him, get him away from me – not because his hold is reminding me of anything, but just because he has no authority, _none_, over me.

But I don't hit him, I don't get him away from me. Because, in my head, I know he's right. I know we should stay out of sight if we can. Until we have a better understanding of the situation, at least. I know, I know. I just hate it more than I can explain.

So I shove his hand off of me but don't move. I keep my bow positioned in my hands, though. I could have an arrow through a skull in less than a second, if need be.

Speaking of arrows –

"Lay down your crossbow." The stranger's voice. A man's, deep. Out of breath . . . nervous. The complete opposite of how Joe would be, taking something he wanted. He would have enjoyed it, Joe. He loved games like that.

"You got some sack on you," my dad says, all dark and scary.

"Look, nobody has to get hurt! I just need weapons, that's it!"

His voice, his voice . . . Nervous, yeah, but ready to back down? Hell no. Desperate, maybe. Aren't we all?

I hear someone – him – clear his throat. "So please lay down your crossbow." And he sounds so professional, like a person from the old world – a teacher telling you it's time to put down your pencil, even though you haven't finished the test yet, even though you know the right answers –

Owen is statue-still, head twisted away from me and towards the small opening in the doors. I missed it, but he's drawn his gun, the one that used to be Billy's – a Beretta M9. Owen called it a badass gun, and it looks the part, I have to admit. It fits perfectly in his scarred hands . . . I haven't see him with a gun much, so I don't know for certain how good of a shot he is, but he's told me before that he's good and I don't have reason to doubt him. But me, I'm a _damn _good shot – and if one of us pulled the door open – if _Owen _pulled the door open, and I got the thief's head in my sights fast enough –

_How many people have you killed?_

From the other side of the doors, a soft _thunk. _What – Shit, Dad's crossbow. Had to be. He gave in. He didn't have a choice, though. I know that, I know that.

"Where are the others?" asks the stranger.

"What others?" says Dad.

"There were two others with you! A girl and a guy, just – teenagers!"

Owen's head snaps to me. Our eyes catch on each other's and stay. For some reason, that makes me feel a little stronger.

And yet –

_Damn it, Owen, you son of a bitch . . ._

"There were walkers upstairs." That's Carol, spinning a story, writing Owen and me out of the one they're living. "We tried to clear them out." Here her voice goes down, it's _weighed_ down. "There were more of them than we thought."

"So what?" says the stranger. "They were bit?"

Dad answers that, voice flat. "Torn apart."

A lovely image.

"Why isn't there blood on you?"

Dad sighs. "They were clearin' out one room, we were clearin' out another . . . They picked the wrong room."

A pause, then, "You two don't seem very broken up."

"We barely knew them," says Carol. "They weren't our kids."

I close my eyes.

_It's only a story, a story, a story. _

"Just picked 'em up about a week ago," Carol explains . . . Good stories need good details.

_Only a story._

"Why?" asks the stranger.

"They seemed like they could handle themselves well enough," says Dad. "Guess we got 'em wrong."

_No, you didn't._

_ He knows that, he knows that, this is just a story, what's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?_

_ You are not in your right mind at all, Sydney Rose. Not at all._

_ You little bitch._

"Shut up," I mutter, and I do mean mutter, so Owen can't even hear me.

"You gonna take our shit, or what?" I hear Dad say, sounding grumpy, like he forgot to pick up beer from that convenience store close to his house, the one we would always stop at for junk food on his weekends.

So, you gonna take our shit or what, Stranger? Really, you could have more. All you would have to do to turn this into something so, so different is shout at Owen and me . . . _I know you're behind there! Slide your weapons out, now! _Then what could we do? Only two choices – listen and give our weapons up . . . nice and peaceful . . . or try to get a shot in . . . dangerous and bloody.

But, done right, better for us.

_How many people have you killed?_

Shh, Rick, not now.

_ Why?_

The stranger doesn't call out for us. No, his next words, after what I guess is time he takes to think, are "Back up." Dad and Carol must listen, because before long there's some rustling, metal clacking against metal, that sort of thing – him getting the crossbow, maybe one of the bags. And shit, that gun he's using is probably our rifle. So what does that leave us with? My bow, with its five arrows, and Dad's knife, and Owen's and Carol's pistols, with however much ammo they have. Are we defenseless? No. But our two most powerful weapons are gone, and I'll be damned if that doesn't matter a hell of a lot. This guy could be killing us.

"Sorry about your friends," the stranger says.

_Sorry you're an asshole._

"And sorry about this . . ."

_This? _Every one of my muscles tighten.

"But you two look tough . . . You'll be alright."

Then there's the high-pitched cry of a knife sliding from a sheath. And something getting sliced, sort of ripped, something soft and easy to cut through –

The moans from the campers. They get louder.

My mind has to put two and two together, but it manages that pretty quickly, and I'm around Owen like a shot. I look out at the skywalk, but from this angle I can only see half of Dad and the glint of his knife, and I turn my attention to yanking at the doors, and they fight against the chain with a rattle and _thunk, thunk!_, but what am I doing? _They're not going to snap free, you idiot –_

Owen shoves his way in front of me and then shoves his arm into my neck. I stumble back, but bound forward as soon as I can, teeth tight together and fury, _fury _boiling inside of me, because _How dare he._

The two gunshots that echo out at us and vibrate all through me don't much help Owen's chances of survival.

I grab for his bruised face, get hold of some hair, lose it, but when my hand slips away I slam my fingernails into him and draw them all the way down his neck, tearing skin. If it hurts him, he doesn't show it, just pushes me off – again – and opens the doors wide enough to try and look through, and I'm going to jump him, I'm going to figure something out, whack him with my bow if I have to, but then –

He looks back at me and says, "It's over. They're fine."

My anger takes a backseat, at least for now, just like that – cool water over a burn. But my senses take over again –

_Always gotta watch Syd, but ya gotta listen, too._

Footsteps, fast, two pairs of boots running away.

"They're goin' after him . . ." Owen mutters, and then, without me having to ask or threaten or whatever, he opens the doors as wide as they'll go and nods at the floor, but I don't need a nod from him, I'm already on my hands and knees and I slide through the opening with ease, find my footing, and take it in, fast, gotta be fast sometimes –

Two walkers down in front of me. Fresh kills, I can tell by the blood on the floor. The tent closest to me has a long tear in it, a parting gift from the stranger – _Free the Walkers!_ someone shouts in my head, laughing.

Dad and Carol, where are Dad and Carol?

The skywalk is empty of living things. I fly down it – racing through the woods has made my feet great at dancing around stuff like logs and rocks and camping supplies and bodies. I hear pounding sounds now, and they get louder as I run. I skid around the corner, see the door to the stairwell, and the pounding sounds have me with my bow half-raised, but it's only Dad and Carol, trying to get through this set of double-doors. The ones we got through with ease an hour ago. But now, now they won't open, even as Dad and Carol shove themselves into them with all they got. The doors stay shut. No – they open a little, then clang back together, just like the ones I just slipped through.

"He chain it?" I say breathlessly.

My dad, he slams his hand flat against one of the doors. "Yeah," he mutters, "He did." He falls away from the door, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair stuck to his forehead.

I remember the gunshots and scan Dad and Carol for blood – new blood – then scan the floor, too, but there's nothing fresh anywhere. "Did you shoot both walkers? Or –"

"Carol shot one walker, tried to shoot the kid – missed." Dad heads back for the skywalk, passing me without a look, and I back up to get a little out of his way and then watch him go, my tongue moving but coming up short on words. Owen's standing in the middle of all the lumpy, gory sleeping bags, eyeing us with his head tilted down, and Carol, she follows my father, and Owen's eyes follow them both as they pass him by, but he stays turned towards me. He's put his gun away.

I should go, go after Dad and Carol, but I don't. I just watch them. My skin is prickling, my throat is dry. Dad didn't look right at me, Carol didn't look right at me. Is that where we are now? Who put us there, me or them?

_It could all be in your head, Sydney Rose._

I like this. This distance from them. I could stay here, in between these chained doors and the skywalk. Just sit down and close my eyes and let the world spin on, while I live in a nice soft gray. Nice soft gray. Peace.

Through my daydream, I hear Dad ask Carol if she knows any other way out of here. She says no. He says _Gotta be somethin' . . ._

Yeah, Daddy. Gotta be something.

As if he heard my thoughts – God, wouldn't that be just what I need – Dad stops and turns and finds Owen and then me. Eye contact! That's good. Are you my best friend again, Daddy? Like we always were, before the turn and even after, for a while, at least?

Let's be best friends again, Dad. We could give it a try.

_Just that easy, huh?_

"What're you two doin'?" Dad almost-snaps. I think he holds back some because he's afraid I'll crumple if he gets too harsh, a delicate little flower. "C'mon! We hurry, we might can find him!"

I press my whole palm against my temple. Dad pulls open those chained doors for Carol, and I start to go to them, boots too heavy to believe, but I go, always go, Sydney, keep moving and going through the motions and fighting, fighting, fighting, because what else are you supposed to do? What else are you?

_Carl's. You're Carl's._

I touch the little rose on my neck, warm from my skin. It's so small, delicate, how can it survive this world? But I won't take it off. I can't. I have to wear it, because Carl's with me when I do.

Thinking of Carl makes me homesick. So, so homesick. What I wouldn't do to be in his arms. To brush back his hair, to smell him, dirt and sweat and all. Curl up into him and sleep, sleep feeling completely safe, and completely loved.

Oh, God. My eyes are burning.

And as I walk by Owen, he says, "My neck's on fire, in case you're wondering. If you wanna kiss it, make it better –"

There's really no conscious thought about what I do next. Remember that adrenaline I talked about, the animal kind? It faded after I reached Dad and Carol and saw they were safe, but it didn't drain out completely, it takes a while for that to happen, and Owen just flipped a switch to tell the adrenaline we ain't done. Just like that, it's back with a vengeance. As is the boiling fury.

So I spin on my heel and slap him. The sound is louder than I expected it to be.

"Sydney –" comes Dad's voice, too far off to matter. Then again, maybe it wouldn't matter coming from anywhere.

Owen's head snapped to the side when my hand made impact, but he rubs his cheek and slowly turns back to me, eyes cool.

_"Never _try to hold me back from _anything _ever again," I snarl.

_You're being ridiculous, you're being so ridiculous – you're being CRAZY –_

I hear someone coming up behind me but Owen only has eyes for me as his hand drops and he says, "Well. _Somebody_ has issues with gratitude."

This time I punch him. I've never punched anyone before. Which is probably why something cracks in my thumb when I do it. But that pain is distant, meaningless, and Owen's head snapped back a lot harder and farther this time, so, hey, it was worth it.

_He's the one you can trust, he's the one who saved you, oh God, what's wrong with you, what's wrong with –_

_ He's a murderer! He's a liar! He's not his brother, he's not his brother, for all I know, he KILLED his brother! He doesn't get to _claim _me! I'm not his! I'm not his, I'm Carl's! Carl's! Carl's . . ._

_ Oh, Sydney, please come back._

I'm hauled off my feet. I'm spun through the air by strong arms and then placed kind of roughly on the floor. My legs are weak but my heart's strong, but that doesn't mean anything, because I can't do anything with a strong heart when what's making it strong is a thousand different emotions, all of them different, all of them telling me to do something else. Ripping it out would be a relief.

"Sydney, baby, what the hell?" A hand on my arm, I'm turned, there's Dad. Angry? No. Shocked and confused. I'm so damn good at making him look like that.

I don't have an answer for him. My breaths are coming in long, going out short. I don't think that's good. I look out one of the windows. I see the sign that says _HELP._

Dad turns on Owen. "What you say to her?"

"He didn't say anything," I tell the sign.

Dad looks back at me, only half-turning his whole body. That way, he can swivel his head back and forth to get views of me and Owen both, if he wants. But it's me now.

I sigh, sliding my arm through my bow. I love the weight it adds to me. No, it's more like I'm not complete without it there. It's a necessity, not an accessory. "He didn't say anything. Except a stupid joke about how I clawed some of his skin off while I was trying to get out of those doors to help you and Carol."

Dad's eyebrows come together. He huffs out a breath. "What woulda been the point of that?"

I only stare at him. The deep ache blooming inside of me like a black rose? That I can hide. I'm good at hiding things, oh, yes.

"Daryl," comes Carol's voice. "We need to go."

Dad's eyes lift over me. One second, two. Then he ducks his head. "Take Sydney. Try to find an exit. We'll catch up."

"Daryl," Carol says, and I can't say if it's a question or a statement or a signal or what.

"Take her." Does Dad glance at me? If he does, it's fast as lightning. Next thing, he's looking at Owen. "Me and you gotta talk."

Owen inclines his chin. The corner of his lip is bloody. His face was already cut and bruised from the fight with Joe's group. He didn't need another injury, no matter how small. I'm an idiot. I'm an ungrateful, illogical, out-of-control idiot.

_Oh, so we like Owen again, do we?_

I swallow. "If you're talking to Owen, I'm staying." Because it's the least I can do.

"What'd I just tell you?" Dad says.

I clench my fists. "If you're pissed at someone, be pissed at me, Owen didn't do anything, I did."

"Sydney," Dad says, not raising his voice, which makes it all the more worse, "Don't make me tell you again."

So that's how I end up following Carol out through those chained double-doors – the ones we dealt with first, I mean, the ones that we got through to get up to the top floor. That's how I end up alone with her, in spite of my determination to not let that happen. That's how I leave Owen alone with my dad, wondering how that could possibly turn out okay and concluding that, well, it won't.

Walking down the hall in heavy silence with my once-good-friend who now wants nothing to do with me, I can't ignore how my palm stings, how my thumb aches. I examine my hand, but the only mark I see is a small scrape on my middle knuckle. A thin layer of blood makes its way to the surface.


	22. Why Owen Cares

The skywalk would be quiet, if not for the moans from the walkers still trapped in the intact tent. Owen stands in the same place he was when Sydney hit him – both times. And Daryl stands in the same place he was when he told Sydney to leave with Carol. Neither of them, boy or man, speaks right after the double-doors clank closed, right after the girl and the woman leave them behind. No, it takes time for the conversation to begin.

Daryl's the one who declared they needed to talk, so it would probably be right if he started the conversation. But Owen is no stranger to disregarding what's considered to be "right."

No. He's all too familiar with that.

So, after what he feels is too much time has passed, he clears his throat, pops his eyebrows, and asks, "Is this the part where you tell me to get the hell out of Dodge?"

"No."

"Why not? You don't like me."

"You don't know nothin'. I like ya fine." Daryl turns away from Owen, and for a second the boy thinks he's changed his mind about this talk, is ready to hit the road and find this girl that's so important to him, leave the _Owen_ situation – and the _Sydney_ situation – in the backseat. Daryl takes two steps – but then he turns again, comes back. Just pacing. Like Sydney sometimes does. He comes to a stop, he looks Owen in the eye.

_So that's where you got your baby blues from, Miss Dixon._

"Thank you," says Daryl. "For calmin' her down up there. For keepin' her safe while . . ." He swallows.

It's the most natural thing Owen's ever done, saying what he says then. "While you weren't looking for her."

Daryl's body goes rigid. His eyes widen a millimeter.

"You weren't, were you?" Owen nods at the double-doors, patiently waiting at the end of the skybridge. "She knows that, by the way."

"I know she knows," Daryl snaps. Owen tilts his head, eyes narrowing some . . . just listening. Daryl keeps on looking at him – no, looking through him. Straight through him. "I'ma make it right. I'ma find a way, and I'ma make it right."

"Good for you."

Daryl focuses his eyes in on Owen again, ready to kill. "Y'know, it seems to me that you're the one not likin' somebody," he hisses.

"Well. I got this thing about absentee fathers."

That's enough to make Daryl jump for him. Owen braces himself, anticipating getting pinned to a wall for the second time that day – or maybe just punched straight-off – but Daryl stops a few inches from him. He jabs a finger in Owen's face. "Man, you weren't there!"

"No. You weren't there. That's the point."

Then there are just walker moans again, and Daryl panting. He can't seem to catch his breath. He takes yet another step forward, and this time, his hand slams into Owen's chest. The boy stumbles back a foot, but catches himself soon enough. "You tryin' to get your ass kicked?" snarls Daryl.

Owen rubs his chest, squares his feet, and smiles his usual smile, the kind that never reaches his eyes. "I learned a long time ago that if you go through life not doin' shit because you're afraid of gettin' your ass kicked, well, you end up being – ah, what's the word? – a pussy."

It's a staredown then. A long staredown. It lasts right up until Owen's plastic smile can't hang on anymore and slides off his face like the glue couldn't hold. That's when he says, "It's gonna take a long-ass time for her to forgive you. If she even can."

Daryl has never resisted punching someone for this long. Holding out is getting harder and harder.

_He saved Sydney. He saved Sydney._

"You don't know her," he spits.

"I know she's stubborn," Owen says, "and I know she's loyal to the point of keepin' with a group of murderers to find her people and save their lives. I know what I saw when I was a kid – her, jumping up and down whenever your truck showed up on our street. And I know how she feels about her mom. About what she did. What I get from all that is that she adores you, that she puts too much stock in people she loves because she's better than most of them are, and that she's capable of holdin' one hell of a grudge." His voice lowers an octave. "And that leavin' her is about the worst thing you can do."

_He saved Sydney. He saved Sydney._

_ And that's the only goddamn thing savin' your ass, boy._

"Abandonment issues," continues Owen, nodding his head and then shrugging. "It's common with children of divorce."

Fuck the kid. Daryl spits and heads for the double-doors.

"Does this mean you don't like me anymore?" Owen calls from behind him.

Daryl stops. Bites his tongue, damn near off, and looks at the ceiling. Then he turns back and says, "Why do you even care about her?"

He caught Owen off guard. Something in the boy's expression shifts – one of the rocks in the wall falls out. The gap it leaves is surprisingly telling.

For a moment, Daryl is looking at the kid he met twelve years ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Wells dragged their solemn four-year-old son to a dinner too uncomfortable for words. The kid who gazed down at his baby brother and told Daryl he loved him more than anything.

"She's the last thing that means somethin' to me," Owen says. Solemnly.

And Daryl believes him. For better or worse, he believes him, and that's when he decides he needs Owen here.


End file.
